


Out Loud

by PotionMastersBitch



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gay Character, Gay Male Character, Parental Jethro Gibbs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:05:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16387397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotionMastersBitch/pseuds/PotionMastersBitch
Summary: The sequel to "The Closet is Dark."Tony's (finally) got a new boyfriend! But, will this one last?!





	1. Chapter 1

Having been prevailed upon by his conscience to find for himself a new coffee-shop, one whose ownership was not claimed by a self-admitted bigot of a woman, Gibbs directed his truck idly through the streets of several neighborhoods in pursuit of one that might be adequate and serviceable to his morning coffee needs. Because, Gibbs reasoned, if he were forced to go any longer without a cup of decent coffee he was sure to commit a grisly act of homicide on whoever so happened to annoy him next. Which, if history had taught him anything, would surely be to the chagrin of the lawless Kennedy boys who had moved in across the street – said ungoverned youth have developed quite the fondness for throwing all manners of thing at whichever vehicle had the nerve to drive past their house whilst they were awake. And while said elementary-aged kids had learned not to do so to his car, himself having quite soundly boxed the eldest two’s ears in, the aggravating fact still remained that the remnants of eggshells and cherries still wound up on his truck as an unintended result of their mischief. 

But seeing as he had no great desire to be arrested for the aggravated murder of multiple children that fine April morning, or really any morning now that his granddaughter had been born and delivered safely into the hands of her father, Gibbs charitably ignored the remnants of grape jam smeared on his bumper and continued his important pursuit of caffeine – knowing all too well that if he did not soon secure such a beverage, the lives of innocent civilians could very well be at stake. 

But after an hour of fruitless pursuit, a hellish timeframe in which he had been forced to contend with infuriating slow school-bus boardings and tauntingly sluggish cross-walk navigatings, Gibbs found his cravings to be of such an insurmountable level that he very nearly surrendered his pride and the well-being of his taste-buds by beginning to consider the prospect of visiting one of those chain-coffee places he so despised. 

It was only as he began his death-march toward once such unpalatable location, the place in question notorious for its overpriced and burned coffee, that he paused and considered that Tony very often frequented a non-corporate coffee-place on weekend mornings – quite often brining with him Margo to show off and pass around whenever the boy erroneously began to feel he was relying on Gibbs far too much to weekend childcare reprieve. And whilst Tony might not be the best judge of coffee, not being like his father a connoisseur of such a fine brew, Gibbs knew that if Tony felt comfortable enough to bring his infant daughter to such a place, that such an establishment must be, at the very least, spotless and free from the worst dredges of society. 

In fact, the only real hang-up Gibbs could reasonably lay claim to when it came to frequenting such a place was that such a shop was, undeniably and quite proudly, a self-admitted gay-space. And, as such, he wasn’t entirely certain he was even allowed or wanted within – no matter how much of an ally he could now purport himself to be. 

But, he gradually reasoned, such a small self-owned business was not like to be able to afford to turn away its paying customers – especially not ones so desperately reliant upon caffeine. At the very least they ought to let him purchase a coffee and go. And, on the off-chance they would not permit him such a mercy, well, there was always McDonald’s – a much better option than the more pretentious chains he so disparaged. And so, with those thoughts in mind, Gibbs changed his course with an elaborate U-turn and set off into the rising sun with the promise of a (hopefully) decent coffee on his brain. 

To his great relief, as well as surprise, the modernly-built establishment was not at all far from his own home – the distance between both house and shop being no more than ten or fifteen minutes at the very most. However, it was to his great discomfort, as well as subsequent embarrassment, that he realized the establishment to be most notably decorated in a very ostentatiously ‘gay’ fashion – its wooden walls painted a very vivid periwinkle whilst its patio and windows were used to display all manner of rainbow flags. And, if all that did not serve to fully convey just what kind of establishment the place truly was, the neon-sign proudly proclaiming the space as “Flaming John’s Coffee House,” surely did the trick. 

But satisfied that he would, at the very least, secure a cup of coffee by entering such a…bright locale, Gibbs thusly wasted no more time in exiting his truck – his desire for caffeine the cause behind his hastened footfalls rather than the fear someone from work would spot him entering a gay establishment. Because, at the end of the day, Gibbs was nothing if not unaffected and indifferent when it came to what others might think of his person. Should they think him gay atop everything else they believed of him, so be it – such a characteristic was a far kinder descriptor than the ones typically used to label to him.   
Much to his great pleasure, upon entering the cozy abode he soon found that the windows had been cracked open to allow the uncharacteristically warm April breeze to cool its inside – effortlessly allowing the smell of soggy earth to mingle with that of several blends of coffee alongside a myriad of freshly-baked goods. 

And seeing as he would no longer need his jacket in the sun-warmed room, Gibbs shrugged the thin garment off his shoulders and lazily flung it into an overstuffed loveseat – eager to claim on of the last available seats for himself before stalking over to the counter and waiting (somewhat) patiently behind two young woman who were currently squabbling over whether or not the sugar content of blueberry scones were at all appropriate for the heavier one’s diet given her pre-diabetes. It was right at the point when Gibbs began to feel the need to inform them both, silly newts that they were, that a foot up their indecisive asses wouldn’t be good for their collect health either, that the college-aged barista behind the counter spoke up and did so for him. 

“There’s a long line, ladies.” The unsmiling woman advised. “Place your orders, or step aside.” 

Looking highly affronted at the very suggestion they step aside when they were ‘so very close’ to reaching an consensus as to what they should eat, the appropriately scolded women sulked a few moments before gradually settling on two cups of black coffee and a slice of banana bread to share between themselves – at long last allowing Gibbs the privilege of approaching the counter to speak with the employee who could make his need for coffee a reality. 

“What’ll you have?” The young woman inquired, her large eyes a disconcerting shade of nearly-black brown. “Our menu is behind me.” She added, accurately gauging that he was a newcomer. 

“I want the largest black coffee you have.” Gibbs stipulated, trying his hardest not to stare at her half-shaved purple hair. “And a blueberry muffin.” He contributed, sparing a glance down at the display case full of baked goods so that he might not gawk at the several piercings she had in her exposed ear. 

“That’ll be $4.50.” The barista passively informed, holding out a tattooed hand. 

“That’s it?” Gibbs demanded, opening his wallet to collect the required bills. 

Quirking a dark blonde brow at him, the employee supposedly named Bridgette smirked and gave him an impertinent look. 

“Did you want to pay more?” 

Seeing as it was admittedly stupid question he had asked, so coffee-deprived was he, Gibbs let the matter of rudeness go and handed the skinny woman a ten-dollar bill – her bluntness and candor having earned her a very fat tip. 

“Keep the change.” He ordered, pushing her tattooed hand away when she tried to return the excess bills. 

Recognizing a kindred spirit when presented with one, as well as far too clever to refuse any tip that came her minimum-wage making way, Bridgette seamlessly pocketed the money into her bra and bent to retrieve for him the last two blueberry muffins on display. 

“I only asked for one.” Gibbs clarified, a note of humor in his voice. 

Opting for the moment to ignore him, the young woman silently plated both muffins on a clean plate and turned to retrieve a few napkins and prepackaged portions of butter. When she turned around again, at long last, to plate said items, it was with a scowl and admittedly sullen air. 

“Chuck fucking Morris comes in every Saturday morning and gets a blueberry muffin with his latte.” Bridgette scowled, wordlessly accepting Gibb’s coffee from a colleague and placing it in front of him. 

“But not today.” Gibbs deduced, having no doubts about the veracity of his statement. 

“No.” Bridgette tersely agreed. “Not today.” 

Thinking of the way in which he had been often forced to intervene on behalf of the young waitresses at Charlotte’s Diner, said place having had no shortage of scum visit, Gibbs frowned and subtly extended his offer to do the same for the affronted woman he was now speaking with. 

“If this man gives you so much trouble, why don’t you just toss him out?” Gibbs inquired. 

Because, looking at her muscular arms and the unchecked wildness in her dark eyes, he harbored no doubt as to whether or not she would be capable of doing just that. 

“My mother hired this asshole in the hopes he could harass me into dating a straight man.” The barista grumbled. “If I get rid of this, she’ll just find someone worse.” 

“Nobody would be willing to take the job if you did away with the first one well enough.” Gibbs advised, taking a test-sip of his coffee. 

Finding the coffee much to his liking, Gibbs didn’t even take offense when the heavily pierced woman giggled and shook her head at him. 

“Are…Are you advocating murder?” She mock-scolded. 

“Not explicitly.” 

“I see.” Bridgette purred. “And would you be a willing assistant to such…waste removal?” 

“I’d have to see just how terrible this guy is first.” Gibbs stipulated, taking a much longer swig of coffee. 

Grabbing up a moist rag, Brigette began to clean the already pristine countertop and frowned, putting on quite the show of pretending to work as either the manager or owner stalked by on his way out of the shop. 

“This man is flirting with an open lesbian on behalf of a crazy religious zealot.” She summarized, scrubbing at an imagery water stain. “Is that not bad enough?” 

“Fair enough point.” Gibbs grunted, hastily removing his muffins from the counter so that they would not be inadvertently splattered with soap. 

“I know.” Bridgette agreed. “But I think a Marine would get the point across even better.” 

More startled than he cared to admit that his profession had been so easily deciphered by the young barista, himself not even being in any NCIS garb, Gibbs blinked stupidly before recovering himself well enough to speak. 

“How did you – “ 

“My favorite uncle was a Marine.” 

Spoken with a morose look in her dark eyes, Gibbs knew better than to inquire as to why the word ‘was’ had been used in place of ‘is.’ 

“Thanks for the coffee.” Was what he, instead, chose to say.

His appreciation thus expressed, he reluctantly abandoned Bridgette to her fate of dealing with the two returned women from earlier – both of whom were now claiming to be unhappy with their beverages despite having swallowed down all the liquid in record time. And while he did not feel good, per se, about such selfishness, the important fact still remained that he had great need of claiming his seat by the fireplace before someone came along and marked it as their own. 

So intent on seating himself in the coveted seat was he, Gibbs almost wasn’t able to restrain himself when he strolled back to the little alcove and found the furnishing to be cradling someone else’s arse rather than his own. In fact, so indignant was he at such blatant disregard to the ideas of temporary ownership, that all he could (initially) do was stand and glower at the lawless culprit. 

“I’m sorry, Sir.” The young reprobate drawled, looking brazenly up into his face with a cheeky smile. “But do I know you?” 

“My jacket was in that seat for a reason.” Gibbs growled. 

Genuinely seeming surprised that such was the case, the markedly tall man startled and leapt gracefully to his feet before turning to investigate the matter for himself. And, as there was most certainly a black leather jacket draped across the back of such furnishings, it was not long at all before the usurper realized his error and blushed his admittance to the crime. 

“My bad.” The stranger swiftly apologized, a notably gay ‘tilt’ his voice. “I’ll move.” 

A man of tall stature, and notably muscular as well, Gibbs found himself charitably forgiving the man his error as it really was rather likely he had not felt the meager presence of such a flimsy jacket pressing into his back. And, all that aside, the unnamed patron had been rather quick to vacate the chair – raising neither argument nor complaint as he did just that and compelled his oversized service dog to follow suit.

“I hope you won’t hold my crimes against me.” The black-haired man implored, seating himself in the recently-vacated chair directly across Gibbs. 

“Don’t make me want to.” Gibbs advised, kicking his feet up unto the table. 

“Understood.” The stranger calmly responded, paying no more mind to Gibbs as he returned his focus unto the book he had earlier been forced to disregard. 

Both of them now properly appeased, Gibbs with the return of his proper seat and the other man with his enormous tome, the following half-hour proceeded in mutually-enjoyed silence – neither word nor sound escaping either of them as they sipped at their coffee and made good use of such a warm weekend morning. 

It was not until Gibbs began to feel the unfamiliar twinges of boredom, the unforgivable absence of a newspaper having precipitated such, that his harmless trait of curiosity lapsed into the far more detestable attribute of nosiness – the main attraction for such a fault being that of the oversized book his former adversary had chosen to read. For, if Gibbs was not heartily mistaken, the book in question was the selfsame volume on naval ships Ducky had given him for a birthday long since passed. 

“Are you a fan?” The unnamed man asked, never once drawing his eyes away from the book. 

“I’ve read it.” Gibbs obliged, shrugging to show his general apathy toward the markedly dry volume. 

Appearing as if Gibbs had just said something particularly amusing, the former-reader grinned and happily set aside the oversized tomb on a coffee-table – the marked weight of which very nearly threatened to topple the absurdly delicate furnishing. 

“You found it boring, too, didn’t you?” The brunette heatlessly accused. 

Once professing the exact same sentiments to Tony after a very heavy night of drinking, a time-honored event in which Ducky seldom participated, Gibbs felt a flourish of guilt twist up his stomach but nodded all the same. 

“If you hate it all at that much, why are you reading it?” Gibbs inquired, wishing to steer the conversation far away from a topic so incriminating. 

“Because if I can’t command the damn things anymore, I should at least be able to read about them.” The tall man frowned, no small amount of bitterness in his voice. 

“You were in the Navy.” Gibbs calmly stated. 

“Marines.” The stranger corrected, sipping at his coffee. “Was.” 

Seeming to sense his master’s growing resentment in the ways only a loyal pet could manage, the black monstrosity of a dog at once padded to his agitated master’s side and laid its massive head in his lap – earning himself both the boon of a vigorous ear scratch as well as the benefit of seeing his master soon calmed. 

“I was a fleet commander.” The brunette suddenly expanded, now speaking with far less bitterness. “What were you?” 

“I was a gunnery sergeant and a sniper.” Gibbs offered, seeing no real harm or danger in sharing such information with a fellow Marine. 

Pausing for a moment to reflect upon the information he was just given, the stranger sipped slowly at his designer-drink and looked off into the distance with a queer expression on his face – concerning Gibbs quite a bit as he knew all the signs of dissociation when he saw them. 

“I lost the hearing in my left ear and got discharged.” The veteran expanded, subconsciously moving his hand to touch his left ear. “Why did you leave?” 

Seeing as the other man was not being completely honest with him, as Gibbs was all but certain there was a diagnosis of PTSD he was keeping wrapped up, he felt no major qualms whatsoever about obscuring his own reasons behind retiring from the Marines. 

“I was getting older and it was time to quit.” Gibbs shrugged, struggling valiantly not to think of the loss of Kelly and Shannon. 

Shooting Gibbs a knowing look, one that conveyed he knew far more than he should, the younger man frowned and resumed rubbing his dogs fur. 

“Somehow that time never comes when you want it to, does it?” 

“No.” Gibbs agreed, throat suddenly tight. “It doesn’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

Charitably bestowed by his infant daughter a full four hours of uninterrupted sleep the previous night, Tony all but reverberated with newfound energy as he moved about his relatively new apartment and prepared the girl in question for the start of a new day. Much to her credit as an individual, Margo took such parental fussing all in stride, her character, though as of yet unsolidified, more in harmony with that of her father’s rather than that of the more temperamental mother who had resentfully been forced surrender custody of her. For apart from the first few hellish weeks of her life, wherein she had refused to stop crying the very moment her Grandfather ceased holding her, Margo’s attitude was now that of the utmost joviality and serenity – herself being calm and silent whenever she wearied of cooing and smiling at those who held her. And if such unheard behavior in an infant happened to aggravate Jimmy and Ducky, they both of them having been forced to contend with the decidedly strong-willed Victoria since birth, well, there was simply nothing to be done for that save for the giving of a few words of encouragement whenever the autopsy-workers seemed at their wits end after having had a particularly foul morning in dealing with the alarmingly stubborn and outspoken three-year-old. If Tony happened to take any pleasure of enjoyment in witnessing both his colleagues’ collective misery, it was only as the result of his feelings of relief in having been so luckily blessed with a daughter who fussed only at the prospect of being forced into clothing. 

Even now, as he patiently labored to remove the black Batman sleeper Abby had purchased for her Goddaughter, Margo’s gummy mouth cracked open in a manner most endearing – effectively warming Tony’s heart even as a large portion of baby slobber dripped down unto his daughter’s neck and crept into the chubby folds of her skin. Grimacing slightly at the thought of what a mess such spittle would make if left unattended, having learned the hard way just how stinky babies could get, Tony quickly swiped away the goo with a soft cloth and tickled his daughter’s chubby chin – prompting from within him a large grin of his own when, at once, the girl’s large green eyes lit up with joy at the simple action. 

“I’m so glad you don’t look like your mother.” Tony hummed, breathing through his mouth as he worked to change her befouled diaper. 

Babbling and cooing in a nonsensical manner in reply to his murmured appreciations, Margo clumsily swung her hands about the air and trilled as she somehow managed to slap her fingers together with a soft clap. Thus motivated to repeat the action again, as her innate sense of curiosity had been provoked, the black-haired baby set about again (in vain) to repeat the motion – unwittingly enabling her crafty father to slip on the preferential-nudist’s body a pair of thick, black winter leggings alongside a set of pink socks. 

“My Goodness,” Tony crooned, wishing to keep the child distracted from the fact that she had just had clothes forced upon her body. “You’re ever so talkative today.” 

And though it truly was only mindless babbling and cooing, if his daughter proved to be all the more similar to Tony she would soon be chattering away happily at only nine months old. Although, he ruminated, if Margo would not wait quite so long to walk as he (18 months having seemed like a lifetime to his concerned mother) that would certainly be for the better. 

All but oblivious to her father’s ponderings and reflections, Margo simply cooed away, her pursuit of clapping now abandoned in favor of favor of swiping fruitlessly at the wooden mobile comprised of boats that her grandfather had crafted for her – each one of the watercrafts different from the next and vividly painted in a wide array of colors. And though Tony knew perfectly well that the baby’s vision was not yet at a point where she could differentiate betwixt the different types of boat, he understood that her sight was just where it should be as she made it quite clear, by way of excited inhales, that the pink submarine was her favorite. 

“You like boats, don’t you?” Tony trilled, kissing her fat baby cheeks. 

Leaving the girl to giggle happily after the kisses, he then quickly pulled a pink fleece sweater over her naked body, not leaving her anytime at all to protest as he wriggled her arms into the boat-strewn garment Gibbs had picked out for her. 

“Just look at all those boats.” Tony squealed, poking at the cartoonish vehicles on her tummy. “There are just so many!” 

Her anger at being put into clothes lasting only a brief moment, and soon all but forgotten as her tummy was mercilessly poked at, Margo squealed loudly and flailed her arms about in abject elation, harmlessly thwacking her father on the nose quite a few times as she worked to convey her pleasure. 

“Oh, you little munchkin. I love you so, so, so much!” Tony crooned, effortlessly scooping the infant up into his arms. 

Loving nothing more than to be held by her daddy, save perhaps being read Dr. Seuss by her grandfather, Margo’s face lit up instantly the moment she was cradled in his arms – the display of such unbridled affection provoking from her father a ginormous grin as he worked, and failed, to tame the wild curls she had inherited from him with nothing more than his fingers. 

“I really wish you’d let me braid this mess.” Tony sighed, gently untangling one of several knots. 

Despite knowing that the infant could not understand the meaning behind such mumbling, Tony could have sworn he saw her scowl in a Ziva-like fashion at the mention of the much-loathed braiding.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tony sighed in defeat. “Not going to happen.” 

Because not only would Margo refuse to allow such treatment of her person to occur in silence, so too would Gibbs would outright murder him if said man ever caught wind of the fact that Tony had, again, made another attempt to tame his daughter’s mane after the first disastrous attempt. 

“You’re lucky Grandpa’s so protective of you.” Tony mumbled, beginning to hum softly as he whisked the baby down the hallway of their apartment and into the kitchen. 

Receiving no real reply in respond to his heatless observation, Tony shook his head in defeat and began to go about securing a bit of breakfast for his daughter. 

“I think we’re going to go back to your old brand of formula.” Tony mindlessly commented, thinking of the last diaper he had been forced to change as he expertly fixed her bottle with just one hand. 

Having shown no strong preference for either variety, Tony having only switched brands upon her pediatrician’s advice she was becoming a bit more ‘fat’ that strictly necessary, Margo blinked mindlessly and began to swat at Tony’s sweater, quite obviously enjoying both the texture and color of the green cashmere. Obligingly allowing the baby her harmless play, as he loved her to no end and it was one of his least expensive garments, Tony continued to labor away and pondered if he ought not call Senior and inform him his biological granddaughter had just started to smile. 

It was only when Tony paused to consider that Senior had not even ‘seen’ his granddaughter in person, far too busy with his recent successful business venture to even spare a brief Facetime, that he reconsidered the matter and decided to wait until he saw his ‘father’ in person to inform him of such an important update. 

“Don’t feel too bad.” Tony mumbled, sticking the teat of the bottle into his daughter’s mouth. “Senior never liked me all that much either.” 

Much like her father stubbornly clueless to anything else whilst eating, Margo remained silent and eagerly began to devour her breakfast – her green eyes not even blinking as she worked to down her formula in what was surely record speeds. 

“You little piggy.” Tony beamed, kissing her brow. “You’ll make yourself sick.” 

If the two-month old in question had been at all capable of controlling her motor functions, Tony was almost positive the little girl would have flipped him off for such a rude remark. But rather than be concerned at the cross look he was currently receiving, he relished it, all but amused when it came to realizing the expression his daughter wore was eerily similar to the one Gibbs was wont to give those who displeased them. 

“Should we go and visit Bridgette today?” Tony crooned, hastily scarfing down a blueberry bagel. 

Although the context of the words was all but indistinguishable to her undeveloped baby brain, the way in which he spoke the words delighted Margo to end, providing for him the perfect distraction for wrangling a pink coat unto her torso. 

“Come now, Goober.” Tony sighed, catching sight of her dangerous frown. “I have to pay Bridgette for that coat she made you.” 

A wondrously soft creation, and rainbow-striped to boot, the garment was absolutely Tony’s favorite item of clothing where regarded his daughter. In fact, had it not been for the fact that Margo’s pink coat so complimented the shirt she was currently wearing, the baby would have been dressed in the newly-made garment. 

“You stubborn, Goblin.” Tony grinned, tweaking her nose. “Don’t you want to go to Flaming John’s?”

Looking as suspicious as a baby could manage at such cheery tones, Margo frowned deeply but nonetheless went still, effectively allowing her father to button the cheery garment up to the neck without too much complaint – Tony, much to his credit as a parent, having used his phone to playback a recording of Gibbs reading “The Cat in the Hat.” 

“What would we do without your Grandpa?” Tony grinned, plopping a pink hat unto his daughter’s head.


	3. Chapter 3

Himself not being much of a talker, especially so after the untimely deaths of Kelly and Shannon, Gibbs was more than content enough to lean back in his loveseat and survey the news through one of the apps McGee had put on his phone after said young man had heard him grousing to Ducky about how stores no longer seemed to carry physical copies of periodicals anymore. His earlier conversational partner, however, seemed not to share such an important attribute – the muscular brunette in question becoming all the more fidgety and uneasy the longer Gibbs ignored him in favor of the sports section. And whilst Gibbs had long since grown used to such grating behavior after having known Tony for a small lifetime, he soon found that the incessant teeth-grinding from his chair neighbor was working to provoke him into a mild rage.   
“Could I help you with something?” Gibbs growled, at long last no longer able to ignore such irritating behavior. 

“No.” The stranger quickly insisted, sparing a glance at his watch. “I have a date in ten minutes is all.” 

Never one to fancy himself a proverbial cock-blocker, himself having often been on the other side of such aggravating actions, Gibbs hastily exited the newspaper app on his phone and tucked the electronic into the pocket of his jeans. 

“Would you like me to move?” He offered.

“Only if you’re willing.” The brunette managed, a pink glow beginning to color his cheeks.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Gibbs grumbled.

Although it was a small gesture, a very small one indeed, the former Marine looked at Gibbs as if he had just somehow inexplicably offered him his hearing back. And not at all enjoying the prospect of being the recipient of such abject appreciation, such expressions reminding him far too much of his deceased daughter, he scowled and began to feign sudden interest in the second blueberry muffin he hadn’t been able to finish. 

“I’ll move when your friend gets here.” Gibbs clarified, seeing no real reason as to why he should quit the shop any sooner than necessary. 

“Thanks.” The stranger expressed, still tense but no longer fidgeting. 

Shrugging off the needless appreciation, Gibbs simply prodded at his muffin with a plastic fork, not really hungry but still feeling the need to do something to pass the time until the younger man’s date arrived. 

“First date?” Gibbs inquired, all but sure he recognized the signs of such. 

He had, after all, been just as nervous when it came time to take Shannon out on their first ‘official’ date. For not only had he been just as fidgety, such uncharacteristic behavior provoking repeated inquiries from his father as to whether or not he was feeling well, so too had he sweat just as much as the brunette was currently doing – neccessating a dangerously quick return so that he could change shirts and still be on time to pick his new girlfriend up. 

“Third.” The stranger corrected, nervously beginning to bounce his foot. 

To Gibbs’s great amusement, such an action (though relatively harmless) seemed to aggravate the younger man’s dog to no end – the giant beast in question apparently unable to differentiate between dangerous-anxiety and its tamer version of nervousness. Thus thoroughly confused, and heartily irritated as a result, it was with a very suspicious and angry look that the animal eyed Gibbs – its large black eyes never once leaving his face as the offended service animal placed its enormous head in its master’s lap. 

“You’re clearly doing something right if you made it to date three.” Gibbs dared to venture, not really caring for the manner in which the dog was now baring its teeth at him. 

“I don’t know.” The brunette fussed. “I think I might have made things a bit awkward last time.” 

Fully able to appreciate the gravity of such a situation, as Gibbs had spilled a full bottle of wine unto Shannon’s favorite yellow dress just weeks into the relationship, he grimaced in sympathy and tried to calm the beleaguered young man before his date could arrive and find him all the more awkward. 

“What did you do?” Gibbs inquired, needing more details so that he could best work out the best way to repair the situation. 

“I spilled green paint on his favorite NCIS sweater.” The stranger confessed, turning bright red. 

Although such a confession would not have usually warranted the strong reaction of Gibbs choking on his coffee, himself having never been so wasteful with the beverage before, he felt such an alarmed response was more than warranted given the fact that Tony had just last week bemoaned to him the untimely loss of his favorite cashmere sweater. An incident which, Gibbs vividly recalled, had come about at the hands of a splash of green paint. 

“And you said this was only the third date?” Gibbs interrogated, suddenly all business. 

“Yes.” The anxious brunette confirmed, understandably alarmed at the shift in Gibbs’s tone. “Why?” 

Gibbs’s ire gradually lessoning as he begrudgingly realized a relationship of only three days was not really worth relating to one’s father, especially so when the word ‘boyfriend’ was not even being put into use, his tense posture slowly relaxed alongside the scowl on his face. 

“Because I think you’re dating my boy.”


	4. Chapter 4

If Thomas had harbored any doubts as to how that mornings date was going to go, he would have said they stemmed forth from the concern that he might, once again, spill something permanently-damaging on his prospective-partner’s ridiculously expensive clothing again. What he had not considered, at all, was the absurd possibility that he might inadvertently run into said man’s uncharitably stern father without nary a warning ahead of time as to what sort of trap he had just unwittingly stumbled into. But ever the Marine, reluctantly discharged from duty though he was, Thomas swallowed down his anxieties and refused to back down from the very clear challenge the older man was presenting him.

“I suppose I ought to introduce myself, then.” Thomas decided, rising to his feet with as much grace and dignity as he could manage, “I’m Thomas Ramsey, Sir.” 

And, when his affronted dog saw fit to whine loudly at such an unnecessary exclusion, Thomas sighed mildly before adding: “And this is Atticus.” 

Clearly eyeing Thomas up in a manner most befitting of an aged Marine, the older man stayed reclined for a long time until, at long last, he slowly rose and shook the proffered hand – the grip of said man notably forceful in a way that served to wordlessly convey just how easily the retired Marine could rip his arm clean off if ever properly provoked into doing so. 

“Gibbs.” The former-sniper grunted ineloquently, giving his fingers one last tight squeeze before relinquishing his hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Sir.” Thomas obliged, struggling to ignore the throbbing in his fingers. 

Inexplicably glowering at such polite manners, the perpetually unsmiling man sank back down into his chair and issued forth an unusual command. 

“Don’t call me Sir.” 

“What should I call you, then?” Thomas calmly inquired. 

His question thus delivered, he made to follow the other man’s lead by reseating himself back in his own chair – the easy effort of such movement stymied only by the stubborn Newfoundland who had suddenly decided the floor was not at all to her liking anymore. But while Thomas would normally oblige the loyal girl and simply seat himself upon the armrest, often figuring the dog deserved the entire world for putting up with his unreasonably-frequent anxiety attacks, he found he could not run the risk of looking like a pushover in front of the man whose son he was currently hoping to secure as a boyfriend. And so, it was a sad heart that he nudged his Newfoundland away from the coveted chair, the indignant snort he received in response wounding him to no end and prompting him to reconsider his viewpoint that she needed no more treats that morning. 

“Gibbs.” The older man allowed, stubbornly untalkative. 

“I see.” Thomas muttered, most ardently wishing for just a few more words. “And do you work at the NCIS, as well?” 

Despite knowing perfectly well that most people did not wish to discuss their jobs outside of their places of employment, Thomas found he could not help but ask such a question in the vague hope of drawing from the older man’s lips a few more words and sentences than he was currently receiving. 

“I’m in charge of my own team at the NCIS.” Gibbs muttered, at long last speaking an entire sentence. “What is it that you do?” 

Although the first part of the older Marine’s narrative was spoken with general indifference, the second portion most definitely contained notes of yet another challenge. 

“I’m a freelance artist.” He confessed, feeling as if he had already lost the battle when Gibbs scowled. 

“That pays the bills, does it?” 

Having enjoyed a long history of being chastised for his interest in art, the vitriol of such verbal assaults only increasing after his proverbial coming out, Thomas stiffened a bit in his chair and worked valiantly to bite back a witty retort. Because, at the end of the day, he knew the pain of his pride being minorly wounded would pale in comparison to the malaise he would feel should a disastrous row with Gibbs prevent him from securing a fourth date with the man he was utterly smitten with. 

“Don’t forget that the government pays you handsomely for getting injured in the line of duty.” Thomas quipped, opting for a bit of satirical humor in place of sass. 

But though he had worked hard to keep all traces of disrespect out of his tone, Thomas found (much to his derision) that bitterness had crept in without his permission and usurped the place of cheekiness. Although, he ruminated, he couldn’t really be at all that surprised that such a negative feeling had reared its ugly head. For no matter how honorably he had been discharged, with more medals and awards than he had ever cared count, the aggravating fact still remained that he had not all been ready to be discharged and retired as a commander. 

That he could hear absolutely nothing at all in his left, Thomas thought, should have been of but little consequence to his superiors who knew he could manage perfectly well by expertly reading the lips of those around him. And as for the spurious claims that he was now a sufferer of severe PTSD, well, those claims were simply unmitigated bullshit. If he happened to get worked up around loud and expected noise, well, it was only because he was terrified of damaging the only good ear left to him. 

“You rescued twelve civilians and most of your men.” Gibbs calmly stated, unnervingly seeming to have unwrapped the cause for his sudden irritation. “They should pay you well.” 

“Most.” Thomas agreed. “Not all.” 

“You did what you could.” Gibbs argued, clearly having read up about the whole affair. 

And though such a sentiment was certainly well-appreciated, Thomas could not, in all honest, claim he had done everything he could. For, at the end of the day, he could scarcely even remember the majority of that hellish affair – the impossibly dark night in question seeming more like a poorly-remembered action move than anything that resembled reality. It seemed one moment he had been storming a compound for wanted terrorists, and the next he was hastily overseeing the complete evacuation of a nearby village – his ear throbbing and bleeding all the while he was dragging terrified children and woman away from the site of an explosion. 

“How’d you meet my kid?” Gibbs inquired, intuitively sensing that the subject needed to be changed. “Here?” 

Grateful for such an easy way out of the agitating conversation, Thomas took a bracing deep breath and forcefully willed away all the terrible remembrances of such a disastrous mission. 

“Yes.” Thomas answered. “I paid for his coffee and told him just how good he looked in his green sweater.” 

And though he had, regrettably, ruined that article of clothing just days later – Thomas knew said garment would always hold a close spot in his heart as it had been that which had first inspired him to speak to Tony. 

“You’ll never go wrong appealing to his vanity.” Gibbs advised, a bemused smirk on his face. 

“If a man looks that good,” Thomas grinned, “You can hardly blame him for being a bit vain.” 

Looking as unamused as any parent would be when faced with the knowledge that there were those who found their children attractive, Gibbs grimaced and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. 

“Don’t go inflating his ego anymore than it already is.” 

“No promises.” Thomas teased. “I can’t help but dish out compliments when they’re deserved.” 

Because as much as he would always harbor a certain amount of bitterness when it came to being discharged against his will, Thomas did not have it in his nature to be a hateful creature when so beautiful a world existed around him. 

“You’re a chipper fellow, aren’t you?” Gibbs sighed, the sound a mixture of defeat and amusement all at once. 

“I certainly try to be.” Thomas assured, maturely opting not to take offense where none was intended. 

And never one for telling lies, it was very nearly the complete truth Thomas spoke – such unfailing serenity of his only ever wavering when faced with unwelcomed remembrances of events long since passed. It was, admittedly, hard to be chipper then. 

“What’s so funny?” Thomas inquired, having not failed to catch the amused gleam in the older Marine’s eyes. 

“Nothing.” Gibbs shrugged. “It’s just that my kid clearly has a type is all.” 

“Does Tony date a lot of military men?” Thomas inquired, trying (and failing) not to give into feelings of jealousy. 

“No. Just the one.” Gibbs elaborated. “But if you’re anything at all like him, you’re going to disappear before the fifth date.” 

Understanding that there were all sorts of gruesome things a Marine could do to a person, especially so a decorated sniper, Thomas wisely backed away from the evident challenge and obligingly nodded his head.

“Understood.” 

It was only when Gibbs turned his attention away from him to finish up his muffin that Thomas dared smiled, the realization that the elder Marine had been earlier been referring to physical attributes now coming into fruition within his mind. Which, when he paused to consider the significance of such, only made him feel marginally better as he wasn’t quite certain as to whether he was being insulted or complimented by way of such a flippant remark. And deciding then and there that such uncertainly could never be allowed to go unanswered for, as Thomas would never be able to sleep that night without knowing which, he opened his mouth and prepared to cheekily inquire of Gibbs as to which meaning he had ascribed such an observation. 

But, much to his great consternation, the front door of “Flaming Joe’s” opened before the words could even leave his mouth – permitting not only his date inside but also the daughter he seemed to carry everywhere with him. 

“Well,” Gibbs grunted, rising to his feet, “I’ll leave you to it.” 

Thus expressed, the former-sniper collected his garbage and made to head toward the front of the shop – his progress severely hampered by the way in which several of the patrons had already begun to flock around the popular Tony and his beloved daughter. 

“You don’t need to leave just yet.” Thomas advised. “You won’t get through that crowd for at least another ten minutes.” 

Looking as if he was perfectly prepared to simply bulldoze through the small throng of patrons, Gibbs glowered at the suggestion and began to search the crowd for the thinnest conglomeration of bodies. 

“I thought I’d take Margo for a bit so that you two could have a few moments to yourself.” He explained, already jutting his elbow out. 

“Forget it.” Thomas chuckled. “You’re not getting that baby away from Bridgette without a fight. And,” He quickly added, “I can tell you right now, Chuck Fucking Morris can tell you just how hard she can hit.”


	5. Chapter 5

Having understood all-too-well that Margo would be stolen from his person the very moment he walked through the doors of “Flaming John’s,” as said event had occurred with alarming frequency since he had begun frequenting the self-ascribed gayest coffee-house in state, Tony had not so much as blinked an eye when Bridgette swooped in and commandeered possession of the of currently snoozing bundle. 

“Oh, you little piggy.” The tattooed woman purred, promptly seating herself in an overstuffed chair. “What is your Daddy feeding you?” 

Her rude, yet well-intended inquired thus made, the perpetually unsmiling barista then made quick work of freeing Margo’s head from the store-bought hat he had forced upon her – the ire at having one of her creations overlooked in favor of a corporate monstrosity made quite evident by the way her eyes had darkened. 

“Margo is fed as suggested by federal guidelines.” Tony groused, not at all keen on hearing his daughter so frequently referred to as chunky or any of its variants. 

Because as harmless as such well-intended jesting was now, delivered when Margo was as of yet at a stage where she could not understand the words, the bittersweet fact still remained that his daughter would eventually grow bigger and learn to take such words to heart. 

“Don’t worry, Daddy.” Bridgette dismissed, playing with the babies tangled hair. “Fat babies are the cutest.” 

“And she’ll soon grow out of all that pudge.” The elderly Lorraine sagely informed, taking the liberty of tweaking the baby’s nose. “Heaven knows my niece did.” 

Seeing no way at all in which he could convince the two stubborn women to stop referring to his daughter’s pleasant plumpness as something to be concerned about, Tony simply sighed and vowed to put a stop to such behavior the very moment Margo began to show she could understand the meaning behind the words. 

“Here’s your twenty dollars for the coat, Bridgette.” Tony announced, slipping the crisp bill into the young woman’s flannel shirt pocket. “You mind keeping an eye on her?” 

“You don’t even need to ask.” The barista readily assured, smiling softly as she needlessly began to rock the still sound asleep baby in her muscular arms. 

And really, thought Tony with an appreciative smile, he didn’t. Because not only when Bridgette herself tear the arm right off of any person foolish enough to harm her little Piggy, so too would the majority of the remaining patrons pitch in to assist. 

“I only need half an hour.” Tony assured the woman, already retreating backwards. 

“Take a full hour for all I care.” Bridgette dismissed, impatiently shoving rouge hands away from the baby in her care. 

“Great.” Tony smiled. “I owe you.” 

Gratitude thus expressed, he then sauntered through the small crowd of ogling guests in pursuit of his prospective boyfriend – harboring immense hopes, all the while, that this date would go far better than the previous one as he really did not wish for his second-favorite shirt to be destroyed as well. 

What he saw next almost made him wish that such an unpleasant reality had actually been the case, for he was not at all prepared to be greeted with the far worse prospect of seeing Gibbs chattering away with Thomas – well, perhaps chattering wasn’t the word for it, but still.

“Dad.” Tony squeaked, nearly dropping his coffee. 

“Tony.” Gibbs greeted, perfectly calm. 

Thomas, for his part in the whole affair, remained uncharacteristically silent and subdued, looking very much to the world like a shell-shocked young man who had just endured a torturous interrogation at the hands of a grizzled old Marine. 

“What…What’re you doing here?” Tony inquired, finally recovering himself. 

Because as much as “Flaming John’s” purported itself to be open to all sorts of allies, the inarguable fact still remained that its atmosphere was far too cheery and bright for his father to be able to get any real enjoyment from the shop. 

“I needed coffee.” Gibbs shrugged, holding up an enormous Styrofoam cup. 

Although he didn’t doubt the veracity of such a statement, Gibbs being a state-renown coffee addict, Tony found he couldn’t help but eye his father with a bit of suspicion – said man’s long history of tampering and meddling far too fresh in his mind to be so easily dismissed in favor of a more innocent theory. 

“I ran into your date on accident, Tony.” Gibbs defended, having not failed to notice the suspicious look he was currently receiving. “Not on purpose.” 

Only mildly relieved at such news, as there was a yet more pressing matter to attend to, Tony frowned warningly at his father before turning to face Thomas. 

“He didn’t interrogate you, did he?” Tony asked, unable to keep from fussing. 

Because even though Thomas was a Marine himself, Gibbs possessed the notorious habit of making even terrorists cry during his interrogations. 

“I said I’d stop meddling.” Gibbs scowled. “I never agreed not to interrogate.” 

Only narrowly resisting the urge to point out that the act of interrogation very clearly fell under the scope of meddling, if not because he knew the argument would do no good, then because he did not wish to provoke an argument, Tony shook his head and began to wonder just how Gibbs’s parents had managed to survive raising a kid so stubborn. 

“It was implied.” He weakly argued. 

“Implications seldom hold up in a court of law, Kiddo.” Gibbs easily retorted, rising slowly to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” Tony demanded, exasperated by his father’s enviable nonchalance. 

Looking as if he had just been asked a very stupid question, indeed, Gibbs rolled his eyes and gestured with his coffee-cup toward the small crowd thronging Margo. 

“To reclaim my granddaughter and give you two some privacy.” 

Blushing slightly at the accurate assumption he did, in fact, desire a bit of privacy, Tony ducked his face to conceal his burning cheeks as he sank down into the seat Gibbs had just vacated. 

“Your father is a frightening creature.” Thomas observed with a smile. “I like him.” 

“Good.” Tony sighed, sinking into the cushion. “Because he’s the good one.” 

But though he had meant the remark to be a flippant one, even a deaf individual could have heard the bitterness in his voice when it came to referencing (even mildly) the existence of Senior – a man who, so self-important, had refused to even show up to his granddaughter’s baby shower. 

“I saved you a slice of banana bread.” Thomas ventured, distracting him from such morose thought. 

“Thank you.” Tony expressed, eagerly accepting the treat. 

It was only after he had made quick work of finishing off the bread, himself being very hungry after only having eaten a small portion of bagel, that Tony realized just how awkward the atmosphere between the two of them was – himself feeling understandably apprehensive as to how this date might go and his counterpart quite clearly feeling all the embarrassment of their disaster of a date wherein he had spilled quite a large portion of paint on his houseguest. 

“I’m sorry about the shirt.” Thomas finally spoke, seemingly just as uncomfortable as Tony. 

“Don’t worry.” Tony dismissed. “The stain came out.” 

Not realizing just how flimsy a narrative that truly was, as Thomas was an artist and more than familiar with the staining quality of his paints, Tony felt his cheeks burn again and marveled at just how awkward and nervous this one man could make him. 

“No, it didn’t.” Thomas argued, not unkindly. 

“You’re right,” Tony admitted, letting loose a small chuckle, “It didn’t. But Bridgette said there was enough clean fabric leftover to make a sweater for Margo so…no real harm was done.” 

And, truth be told, Tony had been looking for ages to find a matching sweater for his daughter – only to have his repeated quests wind up for naught with a myriad of designers and sales-consultants told him just how ridiculous it would be for manufactures to make and market such expensive clothing toward infants. 

“Are you sure?” Thomas inquired, looking as if he would very much like to offer to pay for a replacement garment again. 

“I’m positive.” Tony swiftly assured. 

Relaxing greatly at the repeated assurance, as no doubt it would be quite the difficult feat for an artist to replace such a costly sweater, Thomas relaxed into his own chair and began to scratch at his dog’s oversized ears. 

“You look good today, Tony.” He drawled, the Southron twang perfectly distinct. 

“Thanks.” He grinned. “You do, too.” 

It was no polite pleasantry he made, either, for Thomas did (inarguably) look quite ravishing in his paint-splattered jacket and blue jeans. 

“Did…Did you ever get that case solved?” 

Just as ardently not wishing for the conversation to end, Tony took the bait and willingly discussed his work-life on a Saturday. 

“Yeah. We wrapped it all up on Thursday.” He explained, unfortunately unable to go into any real detail. “Are you getting excited for your art gala?” 

A sudden flush of anxiety causing him to rub at Atticus’s ears a bit harder than necessary, thusly earning himself a warning growl, Thomas fretfully chewed at his lip a bit before answering. 

“Just a bit nervous, is all.” He confessed. “I really wished you’d come.” 

“I’ll try and make it.” Tony promised, once again. “Maybe my dad could watch Margo.” 

Because as much as he wished he had it within him to hire a babysitter like any normal parent could do, Tony simply did not have the strength to entrust the care of his precious Margo to a relative stranger. 

“You could always bring her with if he can’t.” Thomas reasoned. 

“No one wants to hear a screaming baby at an art gala.” Tony kindly rebuttled. 

In fact, nobody wanted to hear a screaming baby anywhere. 

“Margo isn’t a fussy baby, though.” Thomas pointed out. “And Gibbs could always come too, and mind her.” 

“We’ll see.” Tony evaded. “It’s not for a few weeks yet, anyways.” 

“You still can’t bear the thought of being away from Margo, can you?” 

Unable to deny the heatless accusation, as even leaving his daughter with Gibbs provoked within him fierce anxiety, Tony simply nodded and tried not to look too ashamed at such a confession.

“I understand.” Thomas assured, laying a large hand atop his knee. 

And Tony had no doubt that he did, the man in question also suffering from a particularly stubborn case of crippling anxiety. That Tony’s nerves only came about after having endured several nightmares of Ziva trying to kidnap Margo, well, that surely did not mean that his fears were unfounded or not to be taken seriously. 

“Thank you.” Tony smiled, lying his own hand atop that of his date’s.

“You’re welcome.” The other man grinned, giving his fingers a squeeze.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And before I get any crap about the foster-kid commentary, just know that I was one and don't want to hear it.

Pointedly ignoring Tony’s very conspicuous pouting, something that was decidedly very difficult for his parental instincts to allow, Gibbs hummed loudly to himself and continued to mindlessly stir away at the pasta sauce simmering away on his stovetop – not really wishing for the homemade concoction to burn and wind up stuck to the sides of the pot it currently resided within. Because as much as his father liked to proclaim that washing dishes was the most relaxing of free activities, Gibbs had spent far too much time assigned to Kitchen Duty whilst a private to take any real pleasure from such a mundane act. 

“You promised to stop meddling.” Tony sulked, arms childishly folded across his chest. 

“Inviting somebody over for dinner isn’t meddling.” Gibbs calmly retorted, pausing from his stirring to turn the heat of the scorching burner down several degrees. “It’s being…friendly.” 

Not at all fooled by his father’s forced nonchalance, especially when faced with the ridiculous notion that someone such as Gibbs wished to be ‘friendly,’ Tony huffed indignantly and cast a scathing look his way. 

“You don’t know Thomas well enough to want to invite him to dinner.” His SFA challenged, mouth curled into a petulant frown. 

“Sure I do.” Gibbs calmly refuted, peeking into the oven to check on the garlic bread. 

The calm way in which he so readily dismissed his son’s arguments only serving to further exasperate the already annoyed boy, and thus prompting from said person the most childish of expressions, Gibbs considerately hid his amused smirk behind a cabinet door and strived to convince himself that he really ought not to feel so bemused upon witnessing his son’s great discomfort – no matter how well such resultant expressions served to remind him of Kelly’s own animated variety. 

“What’s his middle name, then?” Tony challenged, stubbornly refusing to be bested. 

“Francis.” Gibbs readily answered, resurfacing from behind his cabinet with a handful of spices he did not need. 

“You only knew that because you read about it in some newspaper.” Tony grumbled, not at all incorrect. 

Sufficiently caught out, and caring but little, Gibbs simply shrugged his shoulders and began to go about preparing the spaghetti noodles – figuring that if Thomas had any real sense in his head he would, at the very least, know to arrive on time to a former Marine’s house. 

“Why are you being so weird about this, anyways?” Gibbs patiently inquired. “Is there something up with this guy that I should know about?” 

Because, truth be told, Gibbs failed to see how a simple supper could so aggravate his child – there surely being no real reason behind such absurd behavior other than that which came about when one wished to conceal something from another only to find it nigh on impossible to do so. 

“Nothing is wrong with Thomas!” Tony huffed indignantly, looking fully prepared to defend his boyfriend’s honor. 

“Then why the hell are you being so weird about me inviting him over.” Gibbs challenged, still as calm as always. 

Frowning in suspicion when his simple inquiry seemed to stymy Tony into silence, as it was not at all like his boy to go uncharacteristically mute for any reason, Gibbs stabbed at the slow to cook garlic bread with a dull knife and rapidly began to set about trying to determine what exact fault in Thomas his boy was trying to conceal for him – there surely being no other reason behind such odd behavior in the normally talkative man. 

“It’s…It’s just early yet.” Tony sighed, deflating beneath his father’s stern glare. “That’s all.” 

Feeling rather like an ass for being so quick to jump to such unfounded assumptions, as really there had been little cause for such, Gibbs shook his head at his overprotectiveness and avowed to later work on amending such a trait with the therapist he had been seeing for months now. 

“And you’re somehow worried this dinner will jinx it?” Gibbs queried, his general annoyance with Tony’s evasiveness now lessoning as he came to realize just where such reluctance came from. 

“Yes.” Tony confessed, slumping down in his chair. “Meeting the parents is kind of a big deal, you know.” 

Knowing such a needless statement to be perfectly true, as he (himself) had been a complete and nervous wreck when it came time to meet Shannon’s father, Gibbs frowned in sympathy and worked to rid his boy of some of his fears. 

“Haven’t you met his parents, yet?” Gibbs tried, hoping for a bit of leverage. 

“No.” Tony frowned, picking at a napkin. “He was in foster-care for a reason.” 

“Well,” Gibbs faltered, “Haven’t you met his foster-parents?” 

“No.” Tony answered. “He had too many, and he didn’t really care for any of them.” 

Despite being later ashamed of himself for doing so, Gibbs grimaced at the second confirmation that his boy was dating a former foster-child, his meagre experience with such individuals usually having showed him that such people were (at the very least) permanently scathed by such a tumultuous upbringing and the events that had precipitated such. For even Palmer himself, having been mentored by the ever-patient and ever-loving Ducky for years now, still had the baggage that stemmed forth from being a formerly-battered child – his high degree of sensitivity and timidity more of a vice than the virtue Ducky liked to proclaim it as. It only remained to be seen just how ardently such a similar childhood could have affected Thomas. 

“Look, Tony.” Gibbs began, pushing away his previous pessimistic thoughts. “You’ve already introduced this man to your daughter. I don’t see why a formal meeting with your father should be any different.”

And though Gibbs had avowed to keep the hurt out of his voice as he issued such sage wisdom, it was to his great chagrin that he immediately took notice of Tony realization that he had wounded his father’s feelings by being so reluctant to be a willing participant in the dinner the latter had arranged. 

“It’s not like that, Dad.” Tony quickly pacified, looking horrified at the very idea. “It’s just…It’s just all so real if he has dinner with us. That’s all.” 

Cheeks blushing a very vivid pink at such a confession, Tony stared stubbornly down at the tablecloth and refused to meet his father’s gaze – an action which troubled Gibbs very little as he, himself, was feeling a bit pink in the cheeks. 

“You’re worried you might be wasting your time on another Charles.” Gibbs stated, when, at last, he had finally recovered himself well enough to speak. 

One quick glance at his kid’s suddenly crestfallen face was all Gibbs needed to know that he had the truth of the matter. But rather than razz him about being so emotional and girly as Senior might have done, or perhaps many of his son’s former frat-brothers might have done, Gibbs took compassion on his son and frowned in sympathy – more than aware of the extent in which Charles has broken Tony’s heart.

“Yeah.” Tony confirmed, rather needlessly. 

“Tony.” Gibbs sighed, prodding mindlessly away at his spaghetti noodles. “You can’t keep people away because of what ‘might’ happen. That’s just no way to live life. Trust me.” 

Because, at the end of the day, if his numerous therapist sessions had taught him anything at all it was most certainly that little bit of advice right there. 

“I know, Dad.” Tony sighed, looking thoroughly miserable. “But it’s hard to start over again.” 

“Nobody said it wasn’t.” Gibbs assured, knowing all-too-well such wasn’t the case. “But, if it makes you feel any better, Thomas will disappear if he’s anything at all like Thomas.” 

Relaxing a bit at the sudden humor, Tony surrendered his mutilated napkin to the table and even managed a small smirk. 

“If you’re like this now, I shudder to think how you’ll behave when Margo starts dating.” 

“You won’t have to worry about that at all.” Gibbs readily reasoned. “Because Margo’s not allowed to date until after she’s married.”


	7. Chapter 7

Leaving his father in the kitchen with nothing more than a slightly-bemused rolling of the eyes as he took his leave, as there was simply no way in hell he was going to make Margo wait until marriage to date, Tony smoothed out an invisible wrinkle in his shirt and ran a quick hand through his dark curls before taking a seat on the chair closest to the door – wishing himself to be in the prime door-opening spot should Gibbs suddenly take it into his stubborn head and decide that he should be the one to invite Thomas indoors. 

“Don’t worry, Goober.” Tony called out softly to Margo. “You’re Grandpa will be far too old when your sixteen to hunt down ‘all’ your dates.” 

“No, he won’t!” Gibbs shouted from the kitchen, promptly earning himself a soft coo from the granddaughter he had earlier tucked into the baby-swing for a nap. 

Prepared to retort that everyone did, in fact, grow older as the years went by (as well as climbing to his feet to evade the assured headslap that would result) Tony opened his mouth up wide and began to issue forth such an edict – only to be interrupted three words in by a gentle and timid knocking at the front door. 

“I’ve got.” Tony yelled, all but launching himself at the door and yanking it open to prevent any possibility of Gibbs doing so. 

Although, thinking back on such actions later that night, Tony realized he would not have chosen to open the door in so dramatic a fashion had he realized the small chaos such eagerness had caused – his theatrics having very nearly prompted the easily-startled Thomas into dropping all that which he carried so gingerly in his large hands. 

“I brought you flowers.” Thomas said stupidly, waggling the slender vase in his hands a bit.

A bit disoriented himself after having opened the door in so brutish a manner, the act itself having thrown him a bit off balance, Tony gracelessly clutched the doorframe for support and stared at the flowers in question, the unique assemblage of different-colored flowers being, quite frankly, a more than adequate attention-stealer. 

“I…I didn’t know what flowers you liked so I bought you twelve different kinds.” 

Immensely touched, as he hadn’t been shown that much effort in a relationship since dating Daisy Fossaway, Tony grinned appreciatively at the blooms and reached out a tentative two fingers to stroke the butter-soft petals of a pink rose. 

“You’re in luck.” Tony teased. “Because I like them all.” 

All of them except, of course, the yellow lily – such a pretty bloom perpetually reminding him of his mother’s deathbed and resultant funeral, the likes of which had both been littered with the pungent scent of such a formerly-innocent flower. 

“I also brought some scotch for your father.” Thomas added, oblivious to Tony’s morose remembrances as he waggled the bottle. “I’m not quite sure, but I do think he seems like a scotch man.” 

Before Tony could so much as answer in the affirmative, much less assure Thomas he ought not have felt obligated to bring such gifts, Gibbs’s deep baritone sounded forth from the depths of the kitchen. 

“He is.” The older man assured, a touch of humor in his voice. 

Sparing a moment to look highly concerned that the older Marine had so easily overheard their conversation, themselves being several feet removed from the kitchen, Thomas smirked a bit before moving unto more pressing matters – such being, of course, the matter of the service dog he understandably took everywhere with him. 

“Is it okay if I bring Atticus inside?” The comely brunette asked, looking very much to the world like he was asking permission to bring a bomb within instead. 

Left standing on the outdoor stairs as a light sprinkle began to drip into her shining black fur, Atticus huffed indignantly at her inhumane treatment and glared up at her master – clearly having suffered far more in those last two minutes than she was willing to gracefully bear. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course she can.” Tony readily assured, already trying to beckon the dog in on his own. 

But either remarkably well-trained or decidedly stubborn when it came time to accepting orders from anyone but her master, Atticus tilted her massive head dismissively in his direction and sniffed haughtily – her fluffy tail held in such an odd manner that Tony was all but sure he was currently receiving the canine-equivalent of the middle finger. 

“Are you sure – “ 

“Bring your damn dog inside!” Gibbs growled from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.” 

Biting back an amused laugh as his date’s gray eyes went wide with shock at such an order, the man in question having clearly believed himself to be speaking much too quietly to be overheard, Tony snagged Thomas by the elbow and pulled him further into the living room – such an action, as it turned out, being more than enough to convince the priggish Newfoundland that she could enter the domicile. 

“My dad’s hearing is almost as good as his eyesight.” Tony considerately advised, relieving his date of the burden of the vase. 

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Thomas mumbled, nearly inaudible. 

Blushing hotly at he helplessly imagined what such a sentence could imply, its magnitude not lessoned at all by the near-whisper it had been delivered in, Tony ducked his head to hide his embarrassment as he placed the vase of flowers atop the fireplace mantle. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought something for Margo-Bean as well.” 

“Oh?” Tony inquired, touched by the effort. 

“Yeah.” Thomas affirmed, slipping from his coat pocket a pastel-pink rattle. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all.” Tony readily assured, smiling brightly up into his face. 

Gratitude thus expressed, Tony stepped aside and wordlessly allowed Thomas to approach the nap-groggy Margo – his fears that his date would be ignored in favor of the ginormous dog now seated directly beside her soon proving to be well-founded as the swinging infant cooed and babbled at the drooling beast. But rather than be offended at the behavior of both dog and infant, Thomas simply grinned at the sight, revealing a set of pearly-white teeth as he gingerly laid his handmade gift atop of Margo’s sock-covered feet. 

“I see you…dressed up.” Tony offered, when at last Thomas returned to his side. 

“Yeah.” Thomas bashfully agreed. “I hope I’m not too overdressed.” 

Seeing as the brunette seemed genuinely concerned about such an embarrassing prospect, although such worry really was quite unnecessary in any affair that involved the attendance of Gibbs, Tony choked down a giggle alongside the retort that outdated jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt hardly constituted overdressed. 

“You’ll never be too overdressed when compared to your boyfriend.” Gibbs declared, having soundlessly poked his head into the living room to check on Margo. 

“He’s right.” Tony shamelessly confessed. “But he never dresses up either, so of course my outfits look out of place in this house.” 

Snorting loudly as he removed his head back into the kitchen, Gibbs left them both with a slightly awkward air. 

“You mean I didn’t have to put this thing on?” Thomas mockingly groused, tugging at the woolen fabric clinging to his chest. 

“You didn’t have to.” Tony allowed, stepping a bit closer. “But you do look very nice in that shade of blue.” 

Moving himself just a few inches closer, so that they were now only an inch apart at best, Thomas grinned lasciviously and whispered in his ear: 

“Stop, you’re going to make me blush.” 

“And you’re going to make me gag.” Gibbs contributed, strolling into the living room to collect a now wide-awake Margo. 

Scowling at the loss of an impending kiss, Tony reluctantly backed a few inches away from his boyfriend and avowed to get back at Gibbs later. 

“We don’t need the commentary, Dad.” 

“Well – “ 

“You promised.” Tony reminded, looking quite pointedly at his father. 

“Fine.” Gibbs sulked. “Come eat.”


	8. Chapter 8

Having many times in his youth been forced into attending awkward family dinners, the great majority of his temporary foster-parents having insisted upon such outdated practices, Thomas found to his great delight that his anxiety was of a highly-manageable level that evening – his pituitary glands not so much as permitting one drop of sweat to land on the thinning fabric of his sweater. In fact, so calm was Thomas about the approaching prospect of dining with his boyfriend’s father that he did not so much as blink an eye as Tony wordlessly directed him into the chair betwixt himself and the former Marine – himself having many times in the past been forced to remain seated beside dining companions a hundred times worse than Hitler and Stalin. But as whether or not that confidence would prove to his salvation, or perhaps his undoing, remained yet to be seen – for Gibbs was a man nigh on impossible to read and, as a result, decidedly very difficult to please. 

“Tony, fix the man a plate.” Gibbs ordered his son, himself far too busy with an armful of animated baby to do so himself. 

Fully prepared to assert that he could fix himself a plate all on his own, as really what grown man couldn’t, Thomas opened his mouth a bit and pushed back his chair to stand – fully intending to remove his plate from Tony’s hand and prove himself a capable adult. But before he could so much as rise fully to his feet, much less issue forth a sound from his lips, his boyfriend was glaring at him and shoving him back into his proper place – the expression on said man’s face a decidedly dangerous one that brooked no arguments. And so, it was with a resigned frown that he returned passively to his assigned seat, his great reluctance in having been forced to do so only mitigated by his appetite as he silently watched Tony work to pile his plate high with spaghetti and garlic bread. 

“Are you going to eat, Dad?” Tony inquired, at long last surrendering Thomas’s plate back into its rightful spot. “I’ll fix you one, too.” 

Looking like he would rather lop of both his arms then surrender his granddaughter for even a moment, all thoughts of food but nonexistent as he fed the ravenous girl, Gibbs simply scowled and clutched his precious cargo closer to his chest. 

“I ate while you two were yapping away in the living room.” The older Marine dismissed, repositioning the bottle in his hand so that Margo might not so quickly drain the liquid within. “I don’t mind finding this one so that you two can eat.” 

Wishing to assert that they ought to wait until they could all share the meal together, regardless if one member of their party had already eaten his fill, Thomas opened his mouth to express such sentiments only to be elbowed in the guy by his boyfriend – the expression in his green eyes quite clearly conveying that such a course of action was not to be taken if he wished the evening to go well. And so, seeing nothing else which ought to be done other than to eat, Thomas shrugged his shoulders and eagerly tucked his meal – all his taste-buds immediately springing into rapturous delight as he did so. 

“This is delicious.” Thomas expressed, taking care not to sound too surprised. “Where did you order this from?” 

“I didn’t.” Gibbs refuted, refusing to look away from his granddaughter’s face. 

Despite his great and inexplicable liking of the gruff man, the origins of which he could not properly deduce, Thomas could not help but think he would never be able get used to the older Marine’s lack of verbosity or expression. 

“My dad can cook a lot of things very well.” Tony proudly, yet needlessly, contributed. 

“That must be where you get it from.” Thomas suggested, having once been blessed with the opportunity to sample his boyfriend’s banana bread. 

“I can cook spaghetti and steak.” Gibbs good-naturedly refuted. “Tony is the chef in this house.” 

And though Gibbs may have rolled his eyes at his only child’s poorly-concealed bragging, Thomas could have almost sworn the older man had smiled slightly at the accolade.

“I never though scotch would pair so well with spaghetti.” Thomas ventured, magnanimously opting to pretend not to have seen such a secretive smile. 

“Scotch pairs well with everything.” Gibbs confidently asserted, expertly wiping spittle away from his granddaughter’s face. 

Taking on the same aggrieved look he had worn when Thomas had once asserted American Kraft Singles were the best type of cheese in the world, Tony scoffed openly at his father adamantly shook his head. 

“I think not.” Tony argued, pointedly sipping at his glass of white wine. 

“You just need to acclimate yourself to the taste is all.” Gibbs informed his son, deliberately taking a large gulp of his preferred beverage. 

Feeling greatly as if he were playing witness to an argument that had been repeated so many times it was now of a mild nature, and greatly enjoying the privilege of being able to watch such familial and heatless discord, Thomas sat back in his chair and silently observed the whole affair – grateful that both men felt more than comfortable enough to have a little spat in front of him. 

“Why would I drink something that tastes like a headache when I could just drink something that tastes good?” Tony rebuttled. 

“Says the man who drinks rotten grape juice.” Gibbs countered, sticking a purple pacifier into his granddaughter’s mouth. 

Giving his father a dramatic eye-roll worthy of an Oscar-nomination, Tony brandished his napkin at the older man and frowned petulantly. 

“Fermentation is not the same thing as rotting.” He grumbled. “Do you think of all cheese as mold, too?” 

“If it’s the fancy kind, yes.” Gibbs readily confessed, by that point almost certainly riling his boy up on purpose. 

A self-professed cheese-enthusiast, Tony glowered at such slander against his favorite food and looked fully prepared to quite the table – the presence of his boyfriend almost certainly being the only thing to keep him seated. 

“You never want to try anything new.” Tony huffed. “You might actually like feta, you know.” 

Looking as if his son had just suggested he might enjoy the taste of Atticus’s shit, Gibbs grimaced animatedly and shook his head in denial. 

“I will never like that garbage.” The older man refuted. “It smells and looks like Margo’s throw-up.” 

“Really, Dad?” Tony demanded, looking reproachfully upon the man who had apparently forgotten he was at the dinner table. 

But himself having been forced into attending several dinners wherein the majority of the attendees were half-feral after being locked up for years in a small cabin, Thomas thought but little of the imagery the older Marine had put in his head and heartily dug into his fifth portion of garlic bread to prove just such a point. 

“I’m sorry, Tony.” Thomas expressed. “But I have to agree with your dad on this one. I’d eat broken glass before I tried feta.” 

Before his boyfriend could so much as raise mild outrage over being so quickly betrayed, much less argue forth several reasons as to why it was always good to try something new, Gibbs intervened with his deep baritone. 

“Well look at that, Margo.” He drawled, lightly rocking the baby. “Your father is finally dating someone with a brain.” 

Heart beating rapidly at the praise, as he had suspected it would be years before the older man would so much as say more than ten words to him in one setting, Thomas beamed inwardly and found the courage to press his luck. 

“Does this mean I have your approval to keep seeing your son?” 

“No.” Gibbs frowned. “It means I think you have sense.” 

“It’s a start.” Thomas grinned, unwilling to let his anxiety kick in and ruin the evening. 

“It’s a start.” Gibbs reluctantly agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

            Still riding high on the relative victory of a successful dinner, Tony reclined sleepily in the leather recliner he had selfishly snagged and closed his green eyes in rapture as he sipped slowly at the hot chocolate his father had made just for him after the dishes had been cleaned and put away – the age-old treat having been done up in the correct manner and subsequently infused at least two dozen mini marshmallows before being topped off with an overly-generous portion of whipped cream as well.

            Thomas meanwhile, having clearly wished to capitalize upon his good fortune in having done so very well during the brief interrogation that had followed dessert, was now sat beside the reluctantly approving Gibbs on the sofa – appreciatively sipping away at his fourth glass of scotch as he energetically conversed with his Marine counterpart about all of the missions the both of them had been on in their past.

            “– and that was how I made sergeant.” Thomas modestly blathered, his cheeks colored a delightful pink by the scotch in his system.

            Being himself just as buzzed after five glasses of the same such drink, the older Man nodded approvingly at the answer to his previous inquiry, the story that had proceeded it proving to be a more than welcome distraction from the earlier insipid topic of the gradually warming weather.

            “That’s one hell of a way to make sergeant.” Gibbs observed with a smirk, rocking the sleeping baby in his arms as she began to subconsciously fuss.

            Having had the fortune to play willing audience to such a lengthy story several times in the past, despite the short length of their fledgling relationship, Tony passively allowed the two retired Marines to delve further into the story without interruption – his eyelids much too heavy for him to want to concentrate on anything other than the warmth of the fireplace and the sounds of Margo’s light snoring.

             “It was in Iraq – “ Gibbs was now explaining, his gruff baritone only making it all the harder for Tony to stay awake.

            _He was standing in a field of hissing snakes, their glistening fangs wet with blood and venom -_  

            “– Hot as hell over there.” Thomas was agreeing, the sound of his voice slightly fuzzy.

            _There were babies in that knot of snakes, small and tiny but just as deadly –_

            “– Camels are some of the meanest animals in existence – “Gibbs cautioned, the strength of his voice wavering as Tony succumbed to intermittent fits of sleep.

            _Somewhere off in the miasma, Tony thought he could hear a crow cackling –_

“ – Shot me right in the ass.” Thomas warbled, sounding more amused than bitter.

            _Ziva was always the biggest of the serpents in his dreams, glittering and gleaming all in black as she slithered up his paralyzed body and coiled herself about his neck – her scales as cold and jarring as ice as she worked to strangle the breath right out of him –_

“Sure the M-9 is fun to shoot,” Gibbs allowed, “But have you ever had the pleasure of shooting a Remington?”

            “I’d much rather play around with a tank – “

            _Senior snatched Margo from his arms with alarming speed and strength, his smile cruel as he dangled her by the arm over Ziva’s gaping mouth –_

            “Tony!”

            Ungracefully jerking awake at the sound of his father’s sharp voice, Tony inadvertently toppled the glass in his left hand and sent a generous portion of the homemade hot-chocolate within splashing all over his yellow cashmere sweater.  

            “Are you alright, Kiddo?” Gibbs inquired, hastily tossing him one of Margo’s burping cloths.

            Taking several moments to fully recover, as well to assure himself that Margo was still perfectly safe in her grandfather’s embrace, Tony blinked stupidly several times before finally nodding his head.

             “I feel asleep.” He unhelpfully contributed.

            “Yes, I could see that.” Gibbs allowed, his frown deepening. “But that’s not what I meant.”

            Understanding that there was no way in hell his father would ever let the matter drop, regardless of whether or not a guest was present, Tony resigned himself to his fate and silently cursed the older man for both his stubbornness and overabundance of concern.

            “I dreamt of the snakes again.” He confessed, feeling quite silly as he knew Thomas’s night-terrors were far more valid.

            “You shouldn’t worry about things that can’t hurt you.” Gibbs advised, somehow having always known the snake was Ziva.

            “Dad – “

            “You look tuckered out, Kiddo.” Gibbs interrupted, a touch of parental concern showing in his blue eyes. “We ought to call it a night.”

            Despite wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with a Disney moving playing on his bedroom television, the need for such a childish distraction more than just a little understandable, Tony shook his head and prepared to fight the suggestion – not wishing for his guest to feel as if he was being pushed away from the house of his father in an untimely fashion.

            “It’s only eight.” He tried to reason.

            “I’m more than aware of the time.” Gibbs calmly returned.

             “Another hour.” Tony pleaded, not wishing to spoil his guest’s night. “Just look how relaxed Margo is.”

             Swaddled up expertly in her favorite purple blanket, the first gift Gibbs had ever given her, Margo snuggled softly as she slumbered – her long, dark lashes resting quite peacefully on her pale, plump cheeks as she slept without a care in all the world.

            “And she can stay that way.” Gibbs growled, protectively clutching her closer. “I’m taking her for the night so you can get some real sleep.”

              Unable to protest that he had, in fact, been getting some ‘real sleep,’ as Gibbs would never agree with him that a full four hours was reasonable, Tony sighed but refused to give up.

            “But – “

            “I haven’t had her overnight in ages.” Gibbs quickly reminded him, manipulatively trying to guilt him. “So go on, Tony. Go home and get some sleep.”

             “But it’s only eight.” Tony whined.

            “Then go and do something with your boyfriend,” Gibbs advised, “Because I’m not giving up this baby.”

           


	10. Chapter 10

Although Tony had been more than just a little reluctant to leave Margo behind, his separation anxiety being of what was surely an absurdly high level, his boyfriend’s father had inevitably won out through pure stubbornness alone – said man’s enjoyment of his victory not at all diminished in the slightest as he wordlessly beckoned them out of his house and left his anxious son to drive the slightly-drunken Thomas home to his house just a meagre eight blocks away. 

“You know,” Thomas purred lasciviously, “We really ought to finish watching that movie.” 

“You know we’ll never finish that movie.” Tony blushed, carefully helping him into the bedroom and unto his bed. “We always…get distracted.” 

“That’s the point.” Thomas flirted, effortlessly pulling him into the bed. 

Suddenly no longer sleepy, Tony grinned mischievously and set his lovely green eyes all aglow with mischief. 

“Perhaps we really ought to try and finish the movie tonight, Sir.” 

“I assure you, Sir, I have far better things in mind for us.” Thomas countered, more than willingly making use of the Regency-Era speech his boyfriend so enjoyed. 

“But, Sir, it is the Lord’s Day.” 

Much too worked-up by virtue of being in such close proximity to his boyfriend, atop his bed no less, Thomas declined to response verbally and, instead, planted a ravenous kiss atop Tony’s soft lips – his arousal only increasing as his bedmate returned the fervor and parted his lips to allow tongue. 

“I think you ought to stay the night, Sir.” Thomas dared suggest, already snaking a hand up his boyfriend’s shirt. 

“Yes,” Tony grinned, encouragingly not slapping his hand away, “Perhaps I ought to.” 

Pausing only a moment to revel in his victory, as he did not with to allow the moment to pass, Thomas grinned seductively and planted a lustful kiss in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck – taking in the rich scent of the cologne Tony so favored as well as the laundry detergent coating the collar of his shirt. 

“Don’t give me a hickey.” Tony stipulated, not wishing to break NCIS regulations. 

“I’d rather give you something else.” Thomas mumbled, playing nibbling at his earlobe. 

If Thomas had earlier believed that his evening could not possibly get any better, the whole dinner affair having gone incredibly well already, he was immediately disabused of such notions when his fledgling boyfriend eagerly nodded his head – silently agreeing, for the first time in their relationship, to go all the way that evening. 

“Are you sure?” Thomas pestered, entirely unwilling to believe his luck. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Himself having felt pressured into losing his virginity at the meagre age of fifteen to one of his foster-parent’s biological children, Thomas knew there was no way in hell he was going to utilize the selfsame manipulation tactics to get what he wanted. 

“Thomas,” Tony began, his smile wide and perfectly sincere, “I’m perfectly – “ 

“Because I would never pressure you, you know.” Thomas began. “I’m just not that kind of person and – “ 

“Thomas, would you just – “ 

“I’m happy enough just to cuddle with you, and I don’t want to feel that you – “ 

“Thomas!” Tony growled, suddenly stern. “I’m telling you – I really, really don’t want to finish that movie tonight.” 

And, as if to prove the sincerity of such a claim, Tony smiled flirtatiously and snaked his hand down Thomas’s body, the slender fingers trailing all the way from his collarbone right down to his navel.

“Are you sure?” He babbled. “One-hundred percent sure?” 

“Yes.” Tony grinned, cheekily shoving his hands into his pants. “So shut up.” 

But though it pained him greatly to hold out, for even a fraction of a second as his pants were rapidly becoming all too tight, Thomas found he could not help but play the part of overprotective lover. 

“Tony,” He began, “I know you’ve been with women before, but…this is a little different. It…it might hurt.” 

Because even though it had been years since he had played the part of the proverbial ‘catcher,’ his foster-parent’s biological son having made sure of that, Thomas could still recall the discomfort that had come with such an initiation. 

“What are you going on about?” Tony frowned, seemingly vexed at having his own desires put on hold. 

For a moment, Thomas just blinked, not at all understanding his partner’s confusion until it dawned on him that (of course) a man who had only been with women would mistakenly identify himself as a top. But rather than voice such a clarification to his boyfriend, and subsequently run the risk of beginning a pointless argument, Thomas kept mum on the matter -figuring that Tony could figure out the dynamics of homosexual sex as they played along. 

“I’m just not as light as a woman.” Thomas ventured instead. 

“I’ll be fine.” Tony assured, nuzzling against him. “I’m not made of glass, you know.” 

Knowing all-too-well that his partner was by no means fragile, said man’s body comprised mostly of muscle, Thomas nodded obligingly at the small bit of vanity but otherwise remained serious. 

“I need you to let me know if you want to stop, okay?” Thomas insisted. “Don’t…Don’t just talk yourself into doing something that hurts.” 

Looking slightly bemused at such somberness, as well as mildly annoyed, Tony simply smiled and began to fiddle with the buttons on Thomas’s jacket. 

“I want to have sex – not be flogged.” He needlessly clarified. “Why are you being so weird?” 

“Because consent is important, Tony.” Thomas said, perfectly serious. 

Because when all was said and done, at the end of the day Thomas still wasn’t sure his first-time around had been all that consensual. 

“I know.” Tony quickly pacified, kissing his chin. “It’s just…I want my first-time to be a natural experience. Not something that sounds like a bad romance novel.” 

“I see.” Thomas purred, crawling further atop him to better kiss his mouth. 

“I certainly hope so, Sergeant.” Tony whispered, wrapping his arms about his neck. “You can be a bit thick at times.” 

“You’ll pay for that insolence, Private.” Thomas growled, playfully pinning his arms down. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it, Sir.”


	11. Chapter 11

Still rather sore from the whole affair, but otherwise quite pleased, Tony reclined sleepily against his boyfriend’s chest – the sound of said man’s strong heartbeat, as well as the warmth and perfume of the hot bath water, nearly rendering him comatose as he graciously allowed his eyes to rest for a moment. Seeming just as content to enjoy their shared bath, cramped though it was, Thomas sighed peacefully and affectionately stroked smooth the damp curls atop Tony’s head – the loving action an exercise in futility, as moments later the product-free locks would rebel against the moisture and spring up again with a vengeance most fiery. 

“Don’t go falling asleep.” Thomas gently cautioned, finally surrendering to the unconquerable curls. “I won’t be able to get you out of this tub when you’re so wet.” 

“Are you calling me fat?” Tony challenged, with a grin. 

“No,” Thomas readily assured, kissing his crown, “I’m calling you slippery.” 

Unable to argue the matter, as he really had been made quite slippery via the copious amounts of lavender-oil added to the water, Tony kept (for once) silent and simply settled for pressing closer to his boyfriend – the very real danger of falling asleep and drowning in the perfumed water suddenly seeming very real now that the former Marine had mentioned it. Thankfully able to surmise the sudden discomfort in his tub-mate, all without Tony having to say nary a word, Thomas chuckled and embraced him more firmly – the grip strong, but comforting all at once. 

“We really ought to head to bed, Tony.” Thomas advised. “You have work tomorrow.” 

“It’s only midnight.” He patiently countered, having no real inclination to move. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” 

Despite the latter part of his words being a nonsensical question, indeed, Thomas frowned and took on a markedly somber air – his perpetually paint-stained fingers ceasing their gentle caresses as their owner straightened up a bit in the tub. 

“I’d keep you with me forever, if I could.” The former Marine announced, resting his chin atop Tony’s head. “Don’t ever doubt it.” 

“Don’t ever make me doubt it.” Tony countered, stomach all aflutter with nervous and happy nerves. “Because I think I’d like to be kept by you forever.” 

Potential jinxing of their new relationship aside, Tony found that the words came forth from his mouth regardless, the feelings they carried with them far too powerful to be subdued by something as uninhibited as his constantly-waggling tongue. Because even though Thomas was nowhere near as grounded and aloof as Ziva, nor as blindingly handsome as Charles, the artist in question was far more kind and understanding than the two of them combined – which, when it came down to it, was really what someone such as himself needed in a partner. 

“Do you mean it?” Thomas asked, strong voice suddenly very small. 

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.” Tony assured, snatching up both the Marine’s hands in his own. “I am capable of being serious every now and then, you know.” 

In truth, ever since Margo had come into his life his maturity had skyrocketed, the selfsame things he would have once irreverently scoffed at dismissed now no longer all that unimportant in his mind. 

“I know you are.” Thomas replied seriously. “But I’m a wreck of a man, Tony. The Middle East…it ruined me.” 

“You’re not a wreck of a man.” Tony insisted, tightly squeezing his hands. “You’re not.” 

Tony had, after all, seen more than enough hardened criminals in his career to know the difference between a damaged man and one far too gone to be redeemed. That Thomas was certainly on of the former was inarguable, that he be one of the latter was simply laughable. Wrecked men, after all, were simply incapable of love. 

“You need to know what you’re getting into.” Thomas persisted, his voice taking on the edge it was wont to whenever its master became agitated. “I don’t want to blindside you.” 

“Thomas, please – “ 

“Tony.” His boyfriend sighed, hugging him closer. “Let me speak.” 

Sensing the urgency in the other man’s voice, and understanding it to a certain degree, Tony sighed in defeat but remained mute – knowing that Thomas needed to make his confession far more than Tony needed to hear it. 

“War changed me, Tony.” He began, his work-hardened finger beginning to tremble. “I wasn’t always so…fidgety, you know. That only came about after the bombings – it’s hard to be calm when you can’t hear something coming at you from behind.” 

Although Tony could appreciate the fact that half-deafness would, indeed, be a hindrance to hearing any sneak-attacks, he knew-full well that it was the PTSD from the battle, rather than the deafness, that had caused such an anxiety-disorder in his boyfriend. But that, he thought, was a discussion for another day. 

“I’m never going to be who I was before.” Thomas sighed. “I know that now, and you should, too.” He paused there for a long while, simply working to steady his voice. “I’ll always be a bit…on edge, Tony.” He finally managed. “Especially around triggers. “Are…Are you going to be able to handle that?” 

Having dealt with Ziva’s own violenter form of PTSD, the sound of tornado-drills having once prompted her to break his nose before taking shelter in a linen-closet, Tony nodded somberly, tightly squeezing his partner’s fingers to still the trembling digits. 

“We’ll handle it together.”


	12. Chapter 12

            _In his dreams, the dead always buried him alive, their corpses unnaturally swollen by the dessert heat and impossibly heavy despite the missing limbs. And though he knew it was not possible, at least not according to the scientists, he could always smell the bodies as well, the garish scent only accurately described as the stench of gangrene and rotted meat._

            _In his dreams the dead called out to him, too – the medley comprised of both English and Arabic_ , _of men grown and boys freshly out of high school. They cried out to him both accusations and antagonizations, their breaths sour and rank as their collective weight crushed him into burning hot sand. ‘Why didn’t you save me, Sargent, I was only a kid – I was going to marry my girlfriend when I got back.’ ‘I killed your youngest man right in front of you, and I laughed, too, you heard me. I know you did.’ ‘Angelica gave me her father’s watch before I left…she said I could wear it to the wedding. You’ll get it back to her, won’t you?’ ‘He was so brave, at first, but then he was crying for his mommy, wasn’t he?’ ‘My legs, oh god Sargent, I can’t feel me legs.’ ‘We took his legs and we took your ear, would have taken your other one, too if we could. We’d have sliced your cock right off, too.’_

_\------------_

           

            Awoken from his pleasant dreams of becoming the first man to ride a polar bear to the North Pole by the sounds of Atticus’s anxious whining, Tony groaned and reluctantly sat up, hoping against hope that the beast in question simply needed an ear scratch rather than a quick jaunt outside in the early spring rain.

            “It’s three in the morning.” Tony whined, glaring down at where the dog rested near his feet. “Couldn’t you have waited another three hours?”

            It wasn’t until Atticus snuffled indignantly and pawed at his knees that Tony finally realized something was wrong and moved to investigate. Thinking, first, that there must need be some sort of injury causing the dog to behave so erratically, as she was otherwise so usually well-behaved, Tony flipped on his bedside lamp and peered at the dog – his investigated heartily hampered by the fact that her fur was pitch-black and nearly impenetrable due to its coarseness.

            “What is it, Atticus?” Tony groaned, unable to read her expressions. “Show me.”

            And, with that simple command, the clever Newfoundland took charge and awkwardly crawled off his feet before moving to her master’s side – her enormous black eyes full of the utmost concern as she nudged at the slumbering man’s covered toes with her nose.

            “Thomas.” Tony whispered, suddenly very concerned.

            Because even though his partner was currently making no noise nor moving, the manner in which he was doing _‘precisely’_ that was greatly concerning. For lying stock-still, in a manner eerily reminiscent of the possession movies Abby liked to watch, Thomas breathed shallowly with bursts of air that came in a most infrequent fashion.

            “Thomas.” Tony whispered, this a bit louder. “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

            Far too gone in Dreamland to heed his request, Thomas moaned pitifully and clutched at his left ear, his grip so desperate and powerful that soon the appendage was colored a very vivid red.

            “Thomas.” Tony cried, afraid that he would hurt himself. “Wake up.”

            And though he would later curse himself for his stupidity in having done so, himself being a sufferer of the occasional nightmare, Tony gathered up his courage and gently shook his boyfriend’s shoulder.

            “STAND DOWN, PRIVATE!”

Having thus issued his command to some imaginary subordinate, Thomas violently jerked upright and swung his fist, a garish war-cry springing forth from his lips as his fist made contact with the stained-glass lamp on Tony’s side of the bed – the selfsame blow having only narrowly avoided his partner’s face by a mere fraction of an inch.

            “EVACUATE THE AREA!” Thomas hollered, waving his newly-bloodied hand in a very specific manner. “MOVE!”

            Helplessly cowering as the fist, once again, missed him by a narrow margin and splattered his face in warm blood, Tony quickly fell back against the mattress and rolled off the bed to the floor – carefully contorting his body all the while so that he might not end up with so much broken glass in his bare feet.

            “Thomas!” Tony cried, cringing as a small shard of glass sliced up his foot. “WAKE UP!”

            Barking what was surely the same command to her master, Atticus wagged her tail wildly and pawed at Thomas’s thighs, clearly just as desperate as Tony to put an end to such a violent nightmare.

            “My ear!” Thomas cried in a whisper, still half-asleep. “I can’t feel my ear.”

            Taking the lowered voice as a sign that his boyfriend was beginning to become coherent, Tony moved slowly forward on his knees until his stomach was pressed against the mattress, a few rouge shards of glass doing nothing at all to discourage him as he hurried to soothe his distraught boyfriend.

            “Thomas.” Tony breathed, daring to snatch up one of his trembling hands. “Wake up.”

            Initially stiffening at the sound of his voice, and thus producing in Tony the very real fear he would soon be struck, Thomas groaned in agony and swiped his bloodied hand across his face.

            “Thomas, come on now.” Tony encouraged, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “You’re at home now, not the Middle East. There isn’t any need for evacuations and your ear is just fine.”

            His assurances thus made, Tony daringly stretched a hand up and stroked the still-pink appendage, his movements slow and calculated so as not to alarm the still half-asleep Marine.

            “Tony…” Thomas groaned, his grey eyes gradually taking on a clearer nature.

            “I’m here.” He readily assured, surrendering the ear so that he might cup his partner’s face instead. “I’m here.”

            Blinking rapidly to clear whatever remained of the nightmares from his head, Thomas frowned and sagged his shoulders, a mixture of defeat and mortification shown showing upon his blanched face.

            “Are you alright?” Tony inquired, inwardly flinching at the stupidity of such a question.

            Cheeks turning a violent shade of red, Thomas nodded noncommittedly before moving unto what he felt was a more pressing matter.

            “Are you?” The former Marine questioned, looking highly troubled at the possibility that such might not be the case.

            “I’m fine.” Tony readily assured, sparing a glance at the remnants of the table lamp. “You missed.”

            Understandably confused at such an answer, Thomas finally looked away from his face long enough to discover the carnage he wrought with his fist.

             “Tony! I’m so sorry!” He immediately blathered, turning white once more. “I…I was dreaming of…There were dead bodies – they were going to cut off my ear.”

             Almost unbidden, the brunette’s fingers flew up to his ears, the need to reassure himself that both such parts were still attached quite evident by both the action and concern in his eyes.

            “Thomas,” Tony hummed, gingerly cupping his damaged hand in his own, “It’s alright. You had a bad dream is all. I get them, too.”

             Confession thus made, Tony rose slowly to his feet and moved to reclaim his section of the bed, a little nudging of Atticus the only thing needed to allow him to tug his boyfriend into a Gibbs-worthy bear hug.

            “In my dreams,” Tony confided. “It’s snakes that want to eat me.”

             “You have night terrors, too?” Thomas queried, holding him tightly.

            “Yes.” Tony agreed, stroking his back. “And I’ve found reading helps keep them at bay.”

             “Reading?” Thomas parroted, still all atremble as he clung to his boyfriend.

            Stroking his partner’s hair in much the same manner Gibbs was wont to whenever he, himself, suffered a nightmare, Tony hummed softly and rocked him a bit, the motion childish but hell of effective when it came to soothing the aftermath of a terrible dream.

            “Reading.” Tony agreed. “Would you like me to read to you for a bit?”

            “Yes,” Thomas whispered, “Please.”

            Grabbing from his nightstand the cellphone he had positioned there, Tony quickly accessed his kindle app and pulled up one of his favorites.

            “We’ll read Pride and Prejudice.” Tony decided. “There isn’t anything scary in there.”

            The glass, after all, could wait until the morning.

             


	13. Chapter 13

            “Are you supposed to be moving around this much, Abby?” Kate fussed from her perch on the sofa, watching the goth girl moving to and fro from the kitchen with snacks and beverages but otherwise making no move to assist.

            “I’m pregnant,” Abby grumbled, thwacking her friend’s head with a bag of family-sized chips, “Not crippled.”

            A hallowed tradition for the last six years or so, the only hiatus of such having come bout at the isolating hands of Ziva, their Full Moon Movie Night was scheduled that chilly evening at the McGee’s place of residence – Kate having already taken her turn just last month despite the fact that Seamus’s drunken shenanigans had caused half her living room wall to be reduced to rubble. 

            “You’re not crippled, but you are on bed rest.” Tim fussed, rapidly removing the snack items from her hands. “So sit.”

            Balking a bit under her husband’s unusual firmness, as really neither half of McAbby was familiar with such utilizing such sternness, Abby frowned and looked to the remainder of her friend’s for assistance.

            “You heard the man,” Tony insisted, thoroughly unconvinced by her slightly manipulative use of puppy-dog eyes, “And you ‘did’ vow to obey him.” 

            Dangerously narrowing her eyes at the reminder that she had been coaxed into utilizing such medieval vows by her mother, Abby huffed indignantly and looked fully prepared to launch into a lengthy spiel about how the use tradition did not equate to consent of such provincial terms. But before she could so much as part her purple lips, much articulate a sound, Tim was upon her – his gaze loving, yet firm, as he gently steered her into the recliner she had been nesting in for the last two months.

            “You men are terrible.” Abby whined, sinking eagerly into the leather. “You’re just like Gibbs when Tony gets sick.”

            Unable to argue against the insinuation that Gibbs became a veritable “Papa Bear” whenever he took ill, as several people had borne witness to such fierce mother-henning on numerous occasions, Tony rolled his eyes and shook his head.

            “I am ‘not’ that fussy.” Tim ardently defended, tossing a quilt over his wife’s lap.

            “Yes,” Everyone countered, “You are.”

             Although it had been the entirety of the room to speak, Tim leveled his weak glare at Kate, the skinny brunette in question having been the culprit to speak the loudest.

            “Fine.” Tim grumped, snatching the largest bowl of buttered popcorn away from Kate. “But I can’t help but want to spoil her, it’s only natural, after all.”          

            “Especially since _you’re_ the reason she’s on bedrest.” Kate sniffed, still evidently put out at having had her ration of popcorn stolen.

            Face turning a vivid shade of red at the casual reference of the impregnation of his wife, himself having none of the shamelessness of his partner, Tim spluttered for a bit before finally recovering himself well enough to speak.

            “Abby being on bedrest is not my fault.” Tim protested, looking slightly wounded at the harmless accusation. “It’s just something that happened.”

            Stretching out a hand from her little nest of blankets and quilts, Abby seized her husband’s fingers and gave them a squeeze, a naughty smile taking over her features as her soft blue eyes began to twinkle with mischief.

            “Twins and ten-pound babies don’t run on _my_ side, Timmy.” Abby teased, kissing his calloused fingers. “But I forgive you all the same.”  

            Taking no notice of the purple lipstick left smeared on his fingers, Tim grinned lasciviously and stalked over to his wife, a notably hungry look taking over his masculine features.

            “Just whose side are you on, Mrs. McGee?” The newlywed queried, bending over the recliner to kiss her forehead.

            “Well,” Abby giggled, “When you kiss me like that, it’s hard not to be loyal. You really should do it more, you know.”  

            Given that Tim looked quite ready to do more than just _kiss_ his wife, Tony looked quickly away and feigned interest in the label of his can of Dr. Pepper, himself having no real desire to play spectator to what was basically his sister being wooed.

            “Can we start the movie before I barf?” Kate whined, her questionable patience coming to end after a particularly loud smooch.

             “Really, Katie?” Tim growled, understandably annoyed at the interruption.

            Playing a dangerous game, as McGee really was quite adept at returning one cockblock for another, Kate sassily rolled her brown eyes and refused to be cowed.

            “What?” She grumbled. “For all we know this could be the last Movie Night for ages.”

             “Don’t say that!” Abby cried, clutching a threadbare Bert to her chest. “It’s just not true!”

            His fierce protectiveness of Abby only having increased since the inception of her pregnancy, Tim quickly grabbed a tissue and dabbed at his hormonal wife’s eyes, such an act so well-practiced by then that the aspiring novelist could have surely done so blind.

            “Look, Abby.” Kate frowned, seeming not to delight in the words. “You’re about to have _twins_. You’re not going to be doing anything even _remotely_ fun until those things are in preschool.”

             Helplessly cringing at the vulgar use of the word _things_ , as in all actuality the McTwins were _babies_ , Tony grimaced at Kate and threw a black throw pillow in her face.

            “I think your views on childrearing are a bit misguided, Katie.” Tony advised, swiftly stealing the remote from her hands so that _he_ might get to the movie. “Mothers are allowed to have fun nowadays, you know.”

             “We’ll have to take Abby’s word for it.” Kate shrugged, still having failed to notice the removal of the remote from her lap. “Because Seamus is _never_ putting a baby in me. My cousin Molly told me what childbirth did to her vagina and – “

            Paling considerably as Tim choked on his popcorn and Tony gagged, Abby shook her head in abject denial and glowered at Kate.

            “Doesn’t…Doesn’t Seamus want kids?” Tony demanded, struggling to vanquish from his mind all thoughts of bloody vaginas.

            “God no!” Kate exclaimed, shuddering for emphasis. “The poor man grew up with _nine_ siblings, Tony. He’s _already_ done his fair share of raising children.”

            Despite having always resented growing up as an only child, the loneliness of such afterschool solitude having bothered him to no end, Tony couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of having to share what little affection he got from his father with nine other children.

            “Nine doesn’t seem like _all that much_.” Tim idly remarked, earning himself an eager nod from his amorous wife.

            “Not so long as there’s a gap between them.” Abby stipulated, clearly not at all that keen about the prospect of potentially having to carry yet another set of twins.

             “You say that now,” Kate scoffed, “But just wait and see how you feel after the first two kids wreck your vag – “

             Knowing that Abby had already worked herself up several times about the prospect of needing stitches, provided a C-section did not come first, Tony quickly intervened before the selfsame panic could arise in everybody’s favorite Goth Girl.

            “Can we maybe _stop_ talking about vaginas.” Tony demanded, shamelessly making use of the proverbial gay-card. “Not everyone is as obsessed about them as you.”

            Not so much as missing a blink, Kate shrugged her shoulders and happily moved the conversation along.

            “Would you prefer we talk about penises?” Kate asked, perfectly serious. “Because I’d like a gay guy’s opinion on whether or not circumcised penises are more attractive than – “

            Although he would forever curse himself for failing to maintain a neutral expression during Kate’s particularly obscene narrative, himself having been quite proud of his indiscernible poker-face, Tony found he could not help but groan as he felt his entire face turn red.

             “What’s wrong?!” Abby cried, understandably alarmed as Tony was seldom embarrassed. “Are you going to pass out!?”

            Wishing most ardently that such was the case, as a random bout of illness was far less embarrassing than discussing his new boyfriend’s uncircumcised penis, Tony shook his head and briefly wondered if God would be kind enough to spite him on spot should he pray for such an escape.

            “Oh my God,” Kate cried, her face a mixture of horror and curiosity, “Thomas isn’t circumcised, is he!?”

            “For the love of God,” Tim exclaimed, “You can’t just ask someone a question like that!”

            “And it’s not like he would know.” Abby provided, ‘assisting’ her husband in defending her best friend. “Tony’s a _virgin_. Well…at least in that sense, he is.”

            By now thoroughly convinced that a person could die from sheer embarrassment, despite his mother’s many claims that would could not, Tony buried his face beneath a purple throw pillow and heartily cursed Gibbs for ever having agreed to babysit Margo – such a selfless act having all but deprived of any excuse for refusing to attend such an awkward Movie Night.

            “Anthony Angelo DiNozzo,” Abby gasped, the first to put two-and-two together, “Did you sleep with Thomas!?”

             “YOU BANGED THOMAS!?” Kate cried, far less refined in her surprise than her shorter counterpart. “WHY ARE WE ONLY HEARING ABOUT THIS _NOW_?!”

            Only narrowly resisting the urge to point out to Kate that _Abby_ was his best friend, and therefore the only one really privy to the details of his sex-life, Tony sighed and only further buried his head in the pillow he had earlier grabbed.

            “Honestly guys, it’s only been four weeks.” Tim defended.

            “So?” Kate readily dismissed. “It took you _half_ that time to see the inside of Abby’s coffin.”

             Not at all appreciating the imagery that came to his mind after the coffin was casually mentioned, as he had once had the dubious pleasure of helping Abby shop for a new one after Tim had broken the first just weeks into their relationship, Tony grimaced into the fabric concealing his face and wondered just what he had done to deserve such torment.

            “It was actually only three days.” Abby mildly corrected. “But we’ve got more important things to discuss right now.”

             “Gee, thanks.” Tim groused, sounding quite put out.

            “Aw, don’t be like that.” Abby cajoled, her voice more a coo than a plea. “Everyone already knows about _our_ sex-life.”

            Not that anyone really had a choice in the matter, thought Tony.

            “Tony losing his gay virginity is way bigger news than a few broken coffins.” Kate readily agreed. “Or the thing with that Disney ride.”

            Refusing to even consider the details of such a vivid story, as the first time around such a narrative had nearly given him an aneurysm, Tony childishly pressed his hands over his ears and willed his friends to stop talking.

            “Yeah, alright.” McGee agreed. “This _is_ much bigger news.”

             “SO,” Abby began, poking Tony in the ribs, “Details, Mister.”

            “And don’t play for modest.” Kate forewarned. “You weren’t at all modest when you were dating girls.”

             Biting back the slightly embarrassing retort that such exuberance had only come about as the result of _severe_ embellishment on his part, as really that would only provoke further embarrassing questions, Tony shook his head and briefly prayed for the return of his plague.

            “C’mon.” Tim coaxed. “What was it _like_?”

            “Uncomfortable.” Tony grumbled, irritated at having had the answers forced for him. “In fact, I kind of feel sorry for all the girls whose virginity I stole.”

             Because at the end of the day, the whole ordeal of losing his virginity had not been entirely painless – at least, not initially it hadn’t been.

            “Was it really all that bad?” Abby fussed, looking fully prepared to hunt down and geld Thomas.

            “No!” Tony quickly assured. “It was just…different at first. And then…well, it got better.”

             It had, in fact, actually gone quite well, but that was a detail best saved for another time.

            “So, you said you were uncomfortable.” Kate lead. “Does that mean…”

            “You were a bottom?” Tim supplied, needlessly finishing the unspoken question.

            Despite having been told by bottom and top alike that the position one took had no real bearing on the manliness of those involved, Tony couldn’t help but blush a little at the innocent inquiry.

            “Yes.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “But I know for a _fact_ that Abby tops you on occasion, too, so don’t – “

            “Easy!” Tim pacified, throwing up his hands. “I was just curious about the dynamics is all.”

            Before he could even do so himself, Kate asked the only reasonably question in response to such frank curiosity in a straight man.

            “ _Why?!_ ”

            “Timmy and I thought of trying a third once.” Abby shrugged, looking as if she had mentioned nothing more than the desire to try a new recipe.

            “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Kate exclaimed, nearly launching herself out of her seat. “You were going to let another man into your men!?”

             “Or a girl.” Abby shrugged. “But we decided last minute that we were both _way_ to jealous for that sort of adventure.”

             Finding it hard enough to accept the fact that McGee was, in fact, sleeping with the woman he viewed as a sister, Tony most ardently refused to entertain the notion of another man doing so at the same time.

            “And just imagine having to explain to Gibbs that you let two men fork you at once.” Kate shuddered. “He’d have a heart attack.”

            “It couldn’t be any worse than having him _actually_ walk in on you.” Tony grimaced, shuddering violently at the remembrance.

            “Oh my God,” Tim groaned, “Tell me the boss didn’t walk in on you and Thomas.”

            Figuring turnabout to be fair play, Tony grinned wickedly and shook his head.

            “I wish I could McDaddy, I wish I could.”

            “How…” Abby faltered. “How did he _react_?”

            “Let’s just say that no father is ready to see his son bent over the back of a couch.” Tony evaded, his grin faltering a tiny bit.

            “THAT’S WHAT HE GETS FOR NOT KNOCKING!” Kate cried. “You think he would have learned after walking in on Seamus giving me oral.”

             Not having heard even a snippet of such a story, which was a feat in itself given the way Abby enjoyed gossiping, Tony dropped the mouth and gaped at the agitated brunette.

            “WHAT!?”

            “He didn’t _knock_!” Kate cried.

            “Wait,” Tim interjected, “Was that the day it looked like the Boss had eaten something bad for breakfast?”

             And though such an event had only been a few days ago, the occasion easily marked as Gibbs seldom appeared ill, Tony found he could not help but long for an answer.

            “YES!” Kate cried. “He came to check our shingles but forgot to knock.”

            “No wonder he hasn’t looked you in the eyes lately.” Tim observed, more sympathetic than amused. “You poor thing.”

            “Guy – “ Abby began, her voice taking on a noticeably excited air.

            But so caught up in the current narrative were they, that the sound of such a soft voice went utterly unnoticed until it was all too late.

            “He won’t even glance at me.” Kate fussed. “It’s like he – “

            “Guys – “

            “And he won’t even say Seamus’s name – “

            “GUYS!”

            All of them suitably stunned into silence by Abby’s uncharacteristic outburst, three heads swiveled in unison toward the direction of the recliner, where they found, much to their shock, the mistress of the house sitting in a pool of water.

            “Did…Did you just _piss_ yourself?” Kate demanded, all aghast.

             “No, you goon.” Tim frowned, his voice calm but his face very white. “She’s in labor.”

             “Kate, help Abby to the hearse.” Tony demanded, taking charge. “I’ll take Tim in case he faints.”

           

             


	14. Chapter 14

            Having _finally_ been allowed into Abby’s hospital room after a gruesome fifteen hours of waiting had slowly elapsed, during which time both he _and_ Gibbs had managed to convince themselves that something had gone horribly wrong with the birth, Tony had all but bulldozed the wearied nurse who had summoned him in his haste to be given the honor of an early view of the newly-arrived McAbby twins.

            “Oh, for the love of God,” Abby moaned, “Be _quiet_. They only _just_ fell back asleep.”

            Her heavy makeup having long since sweated away during the most active part of labor, Abby lay upon her hospital bed looking quite young and ragged, her lovely blue eyes dullened with whatever medicine the nurses had found fit to administer and her smile all but forced as she clutched her newborn daughters to her chest.

            “You’ll have to forgive her.” Tim readily apologized, not failing to realize the shock his wife’s uncharacteristic bluntness had caused. “The labor was…tough.”

            Seeing as Tim appeared to have taken quite the beating himself during the whole affair, Tony magnanimously held back his quip that _‘tough’_ was surely a horrendous understatement. For not only had the young woman in question labored for more than half a day, so too had she vaginally delivered unto her husband _two_ oversized babies.   

            “ _Tough_?” Abby whispered, her voice markedly hoarse. “I needed _twelve_ stitches, Timothy McGee!”

            Not at all comfortable with marital disputes, especially those that took place between the only two people whom he was convinced were soulmates, Tony shuffled his feet awkwardly for a bit before setting about to lightening the mood as best he could.

            “If you two are going to have your first fight as husband and wife,” Tony began, “You’ll need to at least let me see the babies first.”

             As anyone might have expected, the slightest insinuation that the newlyweds were doing something so absurd as to argue the semantics of what constituted ‘toughness,’ was more than enough to quickly unify the McGee’s as a unit.

            “The one on the left is Wren Sarah.” Tim informed, instantly lightening the mood as he touched said newborn’s inky black hair.

            “And _this_ one,” Abby hummed, kissing the other’s girl’s forehead, “Is Salem Abigail.”

            Painfully unable to tell differentiate between the two slumbering newborns, as they were truly identical right down to the mild bruising on their pretty pink foreheads, Tony briefly wondered if he ought to advise the new parents to keep the medical bracelets on the twins up until the point said twins were old enough to properly distinguish themselves. But, one glance at the exhausted parents convinced him otherwise, himself having seen more than enough movies to know that trifling with a set of new parents was very ill-advised indeed.

            “Salem?” Tony asked instead, tentatively reaching out a hand to stroke one of the girls’ hair. “What happened to Lucy?”  

              Having agreed amongst themselves to split the naming duties equally, it came as quite a shock to Tony to hear that Abby had somehow managed to undermine such an agreement without any significant argument to hamper her success.

            “Abby needed twelve stitches.” Tim stated quite seriously, no trace of resentment in his voice. “ _That’s_ what happened.”

            Grimacing visibly at the second reminder of what havoc had just been wreaked upon Abby’s lady parts, as he could not even _begin_ to imagine the pain, Tony shook his head to clear his mind of unwanted images and once more touched one of the newborn’s hair. 

            “It’s okay, Timmy.” Abby purred, smiling up at her husband. “You can name the _next_ baby, I promise.”

            Apparently unable to control himself, Tim gaped openly at Abby and evidently said the first thing that came to mind: “All _that_ and you still want another baby!?

             “Well,” Abby blushed, clearly confounded by his surprise, “Not for another year or so, no. But _eventually_. I mean, look at these girls – they’re _perfect_.”

            “How about we wait and discuss this until _after_ the pain meds wear off?” Tim suggested, planting a kiss atop his wife’s brow.

             “How about you wait to discuss that until _after_ Tony’s out of the room.” Tony quipped, having no great desire to play audience to a session of McGee family planning.

            Rolling their eyes in tandem, an action that was notably lacking in any real disproval as neither McGee often responded to remarks in such a faction, the newlyweds grinned good-naturedly at him and let the childish remark go unpunished.

            “Come and hold the babies, you goon.” Tim encouraged.

            “You mean not only do I get to _see_ the babies first, I get hold them first as well?” Tony grinned, more than just a little touched. “Gibbs is going to die of jealousy.”

            Or, at the very least, he was going to pout for the next several years.

            “I’m sure Gibbs is more than mature enough to understand the concept of Godfather privileges.” Abby assured, leveling him with a pointed grin.

            Needing a brief moment, or two, to collect himself, Tony sank down into a visitor’s chair and worked to blink away the sudden moisture in his eyes. Because even though he had immediately made Abby the Godmother of Margo, having had no qualms about doing so whatsoever, he had never really expected to have such a privilege returned to him when there was yet the option of Sarah and Kate to chose from.

            “You mean I’m the Godfather,” He finally managed to ask, needing explicit confirmation. “Of _both_?!”

             “Provided you don’t them,” Tim began, plopping a baby into his arms, “Then yes.”

             Glancing lovingly down at the scrunch-faced potato in his arm, Tony clutched the swaddled bundle closer and sat up in his chair.

            “I’d rather _die_ then allow myself to drop these babies.” Tony assured, crooking his free arm a bit so that the other baby could be adequately deposited.

            “Dying is precisely what you would do if you _did_ drop either of them.” Abby ascertained, no trace of mirth in her eyes.

            Understanding perfectly well the presence of such overprotectiveness, as Tony himself was guilty of precisely that, the threat was more heartwarming than it was terrorizing.

             “Whose eyes do they have?” Tony inquired, vaguely wishing the twins would awaken so he could see for himself.

            “Blue.” Tim ventured, a slight frown on his face. “We think.”

            “It’s hard to tell.” Abby contributed, looking quite put out at the situation.

            Himself having struggled to deduce the color of Margo’s eyes until the ilotycin drops had cleared away, Tony commiserated deeply with the wounded mother and immediately sought to comfort her via compliments.

            “If they’re blue, they really are clones of you, Abbs.” And, not wishing to leave Tim out of the praise-train either, he quickly added: “But they do have your chin, McDaddy.”

            “Especially Wren.” The proud papa announced, glancing lovingly at the baby held in Tony’s left arm.

            Such a comment too absurd to ignore, Tony snorted and shook his head.

            “What do you mean, Tim?” He demanded. “They look _exactly_ alike. That’s kind of the point of them being twins.”

            Because even though the nurses had made an effort to differentiate between the two infants via wrapping one in purple and the other in pink, without the aid of hospital bracelets they were all but indistinguishable.

            “Apparently _Timmy_ is the only one who can tell them apart without cheating.” Abby pouted, glaring lightly at her smug husband.

             “That’s just lucky guessing.” Tony readily dismissed, unwilling to believe such a thing possible.

             “Not, it’s not.” Abby continued to sulk. “He was 19 for 20 by the time I made him stop. And _that_ loss was only because a nurse was blocking his view.”

            Still a but disgruntled that Tim also had an impeccable gaydar, one that had somehow managed to detect Tony’s own homosexuality long before he knew of it himself, Tony shook his head and worked to poke apart the theory that Tim was also some sort of genius when it came to telling babies apart.

            “How on earth can you possibly tell these two apart?” He demanded.

            “Easy.” Tim shrugged, ever modest. “Wren has fatter cheeks then Salem.”

             Sparing a moment to glance at each baby, in a feeble attempt to prove such a claim true, Tony soon gave up after five minutes and shared a mutual frown with Abby.

            “At least you’ll never mix them up with Tim around.” He consoled.

             “Oh you,” Abby sighed, some of her playfulness returning, “Give me back my babies.”

            “Do I have to?” Tony whined, shying away from Tim’s grabbing hands.

            “You can hog them after _everyone_ else has gotten a turn.” The new father assured, comedically trying to use a firm ‘daddy’ voice.

           

              


	15. Chapter 15

            Seeing no better reason then it being the first official day of summer, and the weather being a subsequent seventy degrees, Gibbs decided to break out his grill and host an impromptu barbeque in his backyard – his unspoken hope being, of course, that such spontaneity would give him unhampered access to the NCIS babies. Because while Tony was more than obliging with his tri-weekly habit of bringing Margo over for dinner, as well as for weekend sleepovers, the sad fact still remained that Gibbs had barely gotten anytime at all yet with the McTwins – said young girls having, for the first few weeks of their life, been utterly and shamelessly hogged by either side of their extended family. And as for the rapidly-growing Victoria, well, her stubborn and spitfire ways had all but assured her parent’s unfortunate reluctance to take her anyplace even remotely resembling a public venue – thus neccessating Gibbs to rely upon Ducky for updates on the girl as Palmer was still quite frightened of his person and refused to willingly share with him information unless such was specifically requested. Which meant, of course, that Gibbs had felt compelled to resort to underhanded measures in order to get the babies all together at once.

            Not that he felt bad about doing such, of course. Because, at the end of the day, the whole affair was shaping up to be damn near perfect. For aside from a little hiccup near the beginning, wherein a markedly curious Victoria had managed to successfully investigate whether or not sunscreen was flammable by process of throwing a bottle into the momentarily untended firepit, not one calamity, argument, or injury had taken place – _if_ one chose to exclude the brief quarrel Kate and Seamus had gotten into over who was going to be the designated driver for the afternoon, a heated spat in which Kate had threatened to geld her husband in her sleep until Palmer had stepped in an magnanimously offered to shuttle them both home at the end of the day.

            “You’re going to be in a world of hurt when that girl turns into a teenager.” Gibbs advised Palmer, charitably passing the exhausted father a beer.

            “God help whatever boy is foolish enough to cross her.” The beleaguered man somberly agreed, vulgarly tossing his beer back and downing it in three large gulps. “Because the police alone won’t be able to save them.”

            Although he was never one to participate in theatrics, especially those being had by someone else, Gibbs found he couldn’t help but nod his head in agreement to such a morose predicament. Because not only did the three-year-old’s fiery temperament put Ziva’s to shame, so too would she be undoubtably beautiful enough (in the future) to keep the boys flocking to her in spite of her powerful personality.

            “Mommy said no drinking.” The toddler in question warbled, having chosen at that very moment to wander away from her grandfather in order to scold her father.

            “Mommy also said no chocolate for a week.” Jimmy calmly retorted, pointedly eyeing the smore in her tiny hand.

            Looking quite put out at being bested, as it was not at all a concept she was familiar with, Victoria glared petulantly at her daddy for the space of four seconds before running off in pursuit of Ducky, herself being no doubt eager to tattle on her father for his perceived rudeness. Which, understandably, the toddler had learned to view as a noble habit as her grandfather truly was quick to spoil her with copious cuddles and chocolates whenever she found herself justly scolded or punished.

            “Well,” Jimmy sighed, watching in defeat as his father-figure awarded Victoria with a sparkler, “I’m going to walk away so can I have plausible deniability when she sets something on fire.”

            “If you’re going to be walking away, make yourself useful and check inside to see if Tony arrived yet.” Gibbs half-suggested and half-ordered. “The damn kid is late again.”

            Nodding obediently his assent to such a thinly-veiled order, Jimmy reluctantly rose from the lawn chair-beside his employer and moved to remove himself from the general area, clearly not wishing to face his wife’s wrath should she inevitably learn of his failure to keep a lit sparkler away from their all-too-curious daughter. But before he could so much as take two steps, much less turn in the proper direction, he stopped right in his tracks – a small ripple of surprise on his face as he stared openly at the newly-arrived Tony and Thomas.

            “Don’t be rude.” Gibbs growled, throwing an empty beer can at the back of Palmer’s head when he was sure Ducky wasn’t looking. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a gay man before.”

            “It’s not that, Boss,” Jimmy quickly assured, absentmindedly rubbing at his head, “It’s just that…It’s just that I think I _know_ that – “

            Before Palmer could so much as finish his sentence, Tony’s boyfriend was upon him, the looks on both their faces incredulous and overjoyed as they tightly embraced and slapped each other’s backs like they were best friend’s from back in high-school.

            “Thomas,” Tony exclaimed, understandably confused, “You know Jimmy?”

            “Of course, I do!” Thomas grinned, punching a still-stunned Jimmy on the arm. “We used to get beat up together!”

            Clearly having an understanding of the situation only formerly-battered kids could appreciate, the apparent former foster-brothers grinned at the casual reference to child-beatings and embraced once more – all but oblivious to the fact that they had a small audience watching them with abject confusion and horror.

            “I’m surprised you’re still alive, Palmer.” Thomas goaded. “What with the way you liked to antagonize people, I thought you’d have been shot by now.”

            Unable to believe that Palmer had ever had the balls to willingly antagonize _anyone_ , much less when he was a child, Gibbs frowned and looked to the embracing duo for answers.

            “You wouldn’t believe how much this idiot purposely pissed off the Donahue’s.” Thomas laughed, thwacking a blushing Jimmy on the back. “You’d think he didn’t have a brain in his head.” Catching sight of his friend’s wounded look, he then quickly added: “Only because his heart was so big, of course, poor fool was _constantly_ taking everyone’s beatings.”

            “Thomas.” Jimmy groaned, blushing ever deeper as he took sight of Ducky’s horrified expression. “Not in front of my father.”

           


	16. Chapter 16

            Much to Thomas’s vast relief, the more he came to get to know his partner’s friends and family, the more he seemed to like them and be liked in return. For not only were they all of them completely find with his sexual orientation, so too had neither of them blinked an eye at the presence of Atticus. In fact, aside from a very curious Victoria demanding permission to stroke he ‘puppy,’ the whole assemblage of NICS workers acted as if they had formed a habit of interacting with PTSD-riddled veterans every day.

            In fact, they all of them were currently sat around a beautiful bonfire, beers in hand for the adults and a large glass of chocolate-milk for the inexhaustible Victoria – the battle to coax her into sleeping inside with the babies having long since been lost with the aid of her beloved Grandfather who seemed unable to forbid her anything. And, if he was being perfectly truthful, his compassionate partner had been no help whatsoever in helping Jimmy to solidify his authority as a parent either for, even now, he was busily making grotesque faces at the young girl and laughing in turn as she tried (and failed) to mimic the horrendous expressions.

             “Are you going to be able to put up with that laugh for the rest of your life?” Kate inquired, looking in mock disdain across the fire to where Tony was now crossing his eyes and guffawing like a hyena.

            “Seamus manages to deal with your snoring.” Abby readily quipped, forgoing a beer in favor of a glass of lemonade. “I’m sure Thomas can deal with a _laugh_.”

            Despite being of the opinion that his boyfriend’s laugh wasn’t anywhere near as garish as everyone liked to make it seem, Thomas kept mum so as not to embarrass his partner and squeezed said man in solidarity instead.

            “Thanks, Abbs.” Tony expressed, smiling widely at his best friend. “You’re the best.”

            “You’re only on _his_ side because he babysat for you.” Kate groused, lobbing a marshmallow at Tony’s head.  

            “Which makes him a saint.” Tim asserted reverently. “It takes a special man to willingly watch three babies at once.”

            “Hey now,” Tony blushed, “Thomas helped.”

            Cringing a bit as all eyes turned to stare at him, Thomas shook his head at put the notion that he had been of any help quickly at rest.

            “I barely did anything.” He confessed. “I was afraid of breaking them.”

            Because no matter how absurd such a belief was, Thomas had already had _several_ bad dreams about Margo slipping from his hands and breaking into a million pieces.

            “You can’t break a baby.” Jimmy scoffed, rolling his eyes skyward.

            “James is quite right, Mr. Ramsey.” Ducky was quick to agree, cuddling a half-asleep Victoria closer to himself. “Babies are quite hardy. In fact, in historical – “

            Clearly having come to realize that it was best to stop a narrative from Ducky before said man gained any real inertia, as failure to do so would only result in mind-numbing tedium, Seamus coughed loudly as a cover before speaking in a manner that suggested he hadn’t heard Ducky a all.

            “My mother actually dropped _me_ a few times, and I turned out fine.” Seamus volunteered, no trace of embarrassment in his voice.

            “Define “fine.” Tim teased, idly nibbling at strawberry.

            “HEY!” Kate and Seamus exclaimed, perfectly in sync.

            “Well, I’m sorry.” Tony half-heartedly apologized. “But we _did_ just watch your husband down a full two cups of jalapenos.”

            “Perhaps,” Kate agreed readily enough, “But he _did_ win $60 dollars doing it so….”  

            “Yeah.” Seamus agreed, “If anyone should be annoyed, it’s your boyfriend Thomas for wasting 30 in that bet.”

            Harboring in no way any tendencies toward greed and frugalness, the loss of such a meagre amount of money had bothered Thomas but little. In fact, if he were to be perfectly honest, the only regards he had even given such a loss had been in the way he had felt when he watched his boyfriend’s ego get bruised a bit by such a silly bet.

            “Eh,” Thomas shrugged, “I still owe him for a cashmere sweater. I can’t whine about thirty dollars.”

            “Would you shut up about the sweater.” Tony groused, smile on face. “It made an _excellent_ top for Margo.”

            Unable to deny such a truthful statement, Thomas made to playfully suggest that he destroy the rest of his boyfriend’s wardrobe before Gibbs beat him to it.

            “While you’re at it, Thomas, why don’t you take out the rest of his wardrobe.” The older Marine suggested. “The Boy has far too many fancy clothes.”

             “Excuse me for wanting to look good.” Tony mumbled, subtly removing his father’s eighth can of beer from within reaching grasp.

           


	17. Chapter 17

            It was with a certain amount of melancholic reflection, as well as unshed tears, that Gibbs woke up one December morning and realized that his living room was playing host to an oversized Christmas tree for the time since the death of his daughter and wife. And while he had been the one to insist upon such a hallowed tradition, believing most ardently that it was not fair to punish Margo for something she had played no part in, it still grieved him to no end to walk past the decorated tree on his way for coffee and helplessly reflect upon the memories of his daughter’s first Christmas. Because even if he was going to get to experience a familiar milestone with his granddaughter, words could not describe just how badly it felt to wish his own daughter could be there to help celebrate.

            “Shannon would have _adored_ you.” Gibbs informed his babbling Granddaughter. “Kelly, too.”

            Because even though Kelly had been at a decidedly anti-baby stage of life when she had died, having once proclaimed such beings to be much too loud and smelly, Gibbs was almost positive she would have grown out of such childishness with age. Or, at the very least, he was confident she would have grown to at least _tolerate_ those much younger than herself.

            “You’re a happy baby.” Gibbs blathered, watching Margo clap at the dancing flames within the gated-off fireplace. “Nobody couldn’t like you. Not if they _tried_.”

            All but oblivious to her beloved Grandfather’s ramblings, or perhaps simply more focused on more diverting matters, Margo leaned against Atticus for leverage and kicked her feet at the warming flames – her earlier clapping having clearly not achieved whatever effect she was hoping for.

            “Kelly was a _stern_ thing she was your age.” Gibbs continued, his smile sad and his eyes partially wet. “Nothing at all like you, Sweet-Pea.”

            And, absurdly feeling the great need to share with someone all the feelings and thoughts he had kept bundled up for more than decade, Gibbs continued his morose narrative, figuring there to be no better choice of audience than that of a baby who couldn’t adequately repeat his words to anyone else.

            “Every bit her father’s child, Kelly was.” He announced, the pride he felt at such an announcement doing but little to soothe the dull ache in his gut. “It used to drive your Grandmother crazy to see her glare just as well as me.”

            Pausing long enough to allow himself an indulgent smile at such a fond recollection, as it really had been quite funny the first time his daughter had glowered, Gibbs sipped at his coffee to push down the lump in his throat and blinked several times – wishing for the hundredth time that Holiday season that Shannon could have been there so share grandparent duties with him.

            “She grew out of it thought, Sweet-Pea.” Gibbs assured, now staring into the flames as well. “Or at least mostly.”

            Kelly had, after all, never grown out of their shared inability to tolerate a bully or a nuisance. And, much as the kids in his school had learned to begrudgingly respect such a fact, so to had the kids in Kelly’s class – much to the great chagrin of Adam Westmore who had once been foolish enough to try and force his daughter’s best friend into eating a worm sandwich at recess. He had been sent to the nurse’s office, that one, and Kelly proudly marched home at the side of her mutually amused father – both of them a mixture of smiles and giggles until Shannon had come home to deliver the inevitable, yet ingenuine, scolding for such schoolyard brawling.

            “You,” Gibbs observed, glancing over at his giggling granddaughter, “You’re all one-hundred percent your Daddy.”

            Which, of course, was quite a good thing when one considered the sheer amounts of unchecked rage and violence that dwelled within her untreated mother. That Margo had inherited almost nothing from said woman, aside from her dimples, was almost certainly a blessing bestowed upon the entire world.

            “Pappy!” Margo warbled, seeming to finally take notice of the man who had just fed her breakfast and played with her. “Pappy!”

            Grinning broadly at the unsurprisingly vocal girl, the tightness in his throat greatly soothed by her loving babbling, Gibbs rose eagerly to his feet and stalked quickly over to the excited girl – the clumsy waving motion of her hands quite clearly indicating that she wished to be picked up and cuddled for another ten minutes or so. And Gibbs, ever quick to oblige such an easy request, was hasty to do just that.

            “We really ought to get you walking soon.” Gibbs murmured, sinking back into the comfort of his recliner with baby in tow. “Then you could just come to Pappy whenever you wanted.”

            Because as much he liked to proclaim that he was just as fit as his son, if not more so, the frustrating fact still remained that Gibbs was, indeed, getting older and stiffer in the joints. And though such aches and pains were more than easy enough when it came to fetching the nonmobile Margo upon request, or setting her upon his shoulders for a ride whenever Daddy wasn’t around, such feats would become far easier once his granddaughter could participate a little bit more by walking.

            “I really hope it doesn’t take you as long as your Daddy to learn to walk.” Gibbs confessed to the girl currently snuggling into his chest. “I’ll lose a bet to Ducky, if you do.”

            Unable to really grasp the complexities of what her grandfather was saying, but not at all familiar with what a smile meant, Margo giggled wildly at his remark and crawled up his chest to kiss his chin – the action, while sweet, painfully reminiscent of the same way in which his own daughter would kiss him as a baby.

            “Pappy.” Margo frowned, gently slapping at the moisture dripping down his cheek. “No. No sad.” The toddler coaxed, kissing his cheeks once more.

            “Oh, Margo.” Gibbs sighed, squeezing her in a tight hug. “How would I get through the Holidays without you?”

           


	18. Chapter 18

            Woken up early on Christmas morning by his perpetually childlike son, Gibbs groaned loudly and allowed himself a small smirk before climbing out of bed to investigate the suspicious sounds now coming from his living room. Because if he knew his son, which he did, said man was very likely rooting around in the presents downstairs in a fruitless attempt to decipher what Santa had brought him whilst he slept. And while Gibbs had long ago began taking the added precaution of wrapping all his child’s gifts in an absurd amount of bubble wrap, so as to prevent any sort of noise-identification, he most certainly didn’t put it past his child to have developed some new method of gift-detection.

            “Anthony Angelo,” Gibbs scolded, groggily making his way into the living room, “You had best not be trying to peek at your gifts.”

            Thusly declared, he marched sternly into his darkened living room, fully prepared to thwack his errant youth on the back of the head should so much as one centimeter of wrapping paper be peeled back away from its box or package. Because as endearingly charming as such childishness admittedly was, Kelly having often done the same in a far clumsier and inculpating manner, the fact still remained that it was a parent’s duty to prevent “Santa’s” hard work from being cheapened by early investigations.

            But, much to his great surprise, as well as befuddlement, it was not Tony he found in the living room, but Margo – the mischievous imp of a baby having sometime during the night managed to crawl over to the tree and decimate a brightly-wrapped parcel that had been meant for Atticus.

            “Sweet-Pea.” Gibbs groaned, a soft smile on his face. “What’re you doing?”

            Squealing loudly as she realized her beloved grandfather had arrived, Margo excitedly waggled the incriminating hank of red wrapping-paper in her fist and smiled shamelessly at him. And Gibbs, unable to resist the affects of such a hopeful expression, was shamefully quick to fulfil the babbling babies nonverbal request to be scooped up for a hug.

            “You little monster.” Gibbs heatlessly scolded, gently freeing the paper from his fist. “So much like your daddy, aren’t you?”

            Understanding that her favorite person in the whole world was being referred, yet not understanding with what context, Margo beamed brightly and squealed as she waved a slobbery fist toward the sofa her father was snuggled up upon – said man having no doubt continued his tradition of watching the Christmas Tree lights before heading to bed only to have failed at staying awake long enough to return to his bedroom.

             “Pappy!” Margo warbled, dripping drool unto his shoulder. “Dada!”

            “Shhh.” Gibbs coaxed, bouncing the baby a little. “Let your daddy sleep for a bit.”

            Because while Gibbs and Margo were most certainly used to the concept of waking long before the sun had risen, he by virtue of having been in the Marines and she by virtue of being an infant, neither Tony nor Thomas seemed particularly keen to rise before seven.

            “Toto!” Margo babbled, idly slapping at his chin with her drooly fingers.

            “Thomas is upstairs, Sweet-Pea.” Gibbs assured. “He’ll be down later.”

            Giving her grandfather a fleetingly stern look that seemed to convey she felt that had very much better be the case, as Margo had come to greatly adore her father’s boyfriend, the baby yanked at his lips and gestured impatiently toward the kitchen with a clumsy fist – her desire to be fed quite palpable even without the rumbling of her stomach to attest to such.

            “Yeah, Yeah.” Gibbs grinned, smoothing down her unruly curls. “Just give me a minute.”

            Thus said, he stalked quickly into the kitchen, past experience having taught him very well that a hungry DiNozzo could rapidly turn into a terror if not soon adequately fed in a timely manner.

            “Well, what will it be?” Gibbs inquired, plopping the girl into her highchair. “Bananas or mashed potatoes?”

            Having long since given up the battle to introduce his granddaughter to the concept of time-appropriate meals, as such an endeavor had been a lost cause from the very start, Gibbs did not so much as raise an eyebrow when his granddaughter gave her answer.

            “Toes.” She requested, green eyes all aglow with anticipation.

            “Potatoes it is.” Gibbs obliged, depositing a small bowl of said food before her.

            “Wawa?” Margo requested, touching her lips.

            Expressly forbidden by her father to give the child anything other than water or plain milk, as said man’s vanity would not allow for the possibility of his daughter having ugly teeth, Gibbs filled Margo’s bottle up with the requested water after only narrowly resisting the urge to give her a bit of orange juice.

            “Your daddy is such a tyrant.” Gibbs sulked, feeling quite guilty as he poured himself a glass of coffee. “Back when I was your age, my mother would give me coffee all the time.”

            “And just how many cavities did you have before first-grade?” Tony queried, rubbing at his bleary eyes as he made his way into the kitchen.

            “You hush up.” Gibbs groused, fetching down from a cabinet a bag of flour. “Or I won’t let you lick the pancake batter.”


	19. Chapter 19

            Both undeservedly and charitably blessed with an unusually warm Easter afternoon, Thomas smiled brightly as he stalked barefoot through Gibbs’s backyard, not even the tedium and anxiety of having to step carefully to avoid trampling any of the boisterous young children in search of candy-filled eggs working to sully his good mood. Because, whether the regressives in office liked it or not, he knew himself to be utterly and helplessly in love for the first time. In fact, so over the moon was he, that not even the inadvertent spilling of chocolate milk unto his white shoes by a clumsy Margo was enough to swipe the stupid grin off his face.

            “Was hyping all these toddlers up on sugar really a good idea?” Thomas inquired of Gibbs, eagerly settling beside the older man on a handmade bench.

            Carefully setting aside the wooden ballerina he had whittling for the dance-obsessed Wren’s upcoming birthday, having already finished up a functional motorcycle for Salem, Gibbs fixed Thomas with a firm glare and scowled.

            “I only get to ply my granddaughter with candy three times a year.” The older Marine grumbled, clearly still aggravated by such a firm stipulation. “I’m not skimping out on one of the few times I can. Besides,” He shrugged, glancing down at the slumbering newborn placed at his feet by an exhausted Abby, “At least Lucy can’t run around yet.”

            Smiling openly down at the slumbering baby ensconced in her handmade cradle, her tiny face pink and perfect beneath a crop of thick black hair, Thomas used his foot to rock the newest McGee a bit and inwardly lamented the fact that he and Tony would never be able to bring another baby into their home unless they went through the rigorous process of adoption.

            “ _Yet_.” Thomas stipulated, the grin on his face only widening. “But if this one is anything like her sisters, she’ll be up and running in another eight months.”

            Because, unlike Margo who had decided to take a full thirteen months to start walking, the McTwins had been off and running almost as soon as they had hit ten months. And, even now, they greatly outsped their clumsier counterpart, invariably leaving the older girl behind in their metaphorical dust in their frenzied pursuit of treasure until the four-year-old Victoria scolded them for their forgetfulness and reminded them to play nice.  

            “That one is going to be a president, for sure.” Thomas observed, watching in amusement as the older girl took charge and steered the toddlers away from the ash-filled firepit.

            “Which is good.” Gibbs readily assured, tucking his whittling knife into the pocket of his shirt. “Because Wren is going to need _a lot_ of presidential pardons in the future.”  

            While such a prospect was a morose one, as well as a bit cruel, Thomas found he couldn’t help but agree with such a bleak assessment. For Wren, despite being of the same friendly and happy nature of her twin, was also possessive of a certain tendency for criminal mischief and destruction.

            “Oh, please.” Abby argued, taking a seat to Gibbs’s left. “Salem would just charm the pants off of whatever prosecutor who tried to condemn her sister.”

             “So would Margo.” Thomas ventured, having just last week watched the toddler flirt with several preschoolers at the park.

             “Margo is _not_ allowed to date until after she’s married.” Gibbs announced for the hundredth time, his expression quite firm and resolute as he watched said toddler chase after a playful Atticus.

             “Gibbs,” Abby began, semi-distracted as she watched her husband try and coax Wren away from a dead snake, “Margo is _beautiful_. And a flirt. She’s going to be dating. _A lot_.”

            Unable to argue that Margo was not at all beautiful, as that would be the most horrendous of slanders, Thomas frowned and struggled to bite back the opinion that Gibbs was, perhaps, a little bit correct in being so protective of his granddaughter. Thankfully, for the sake of his friendship with the permissive mother, Tim chose at that moment to evoke the help of his wife via a frantic waving of his hands as his daughter plucked up the snake and worked to terrorize her sister by rubbing it in her face.

             “At least Salem takes after her father.” Gibbs observed, clearly referring to the fact that said girl possessed absolutely none of the naughtiness and spirit of her twin.

            “Thank the Lord.” Thomas intoned somberly. “I don’t think the world could handle two Wren’s at once.” And there pausing a moment to dab some sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, needing some time to garner a bit of courage, Thomas cleared his throat and spoke again. “But back to the subject of dating – “

            “What about it?” Gibbs barked, clearly predicting his verdict of no dates for Margo to go challenged.

            Reminding himself that Gibbs had long ago given him his approval, not only to date his son but as a person as well, Thomas willed away the knot of anxiety building up in his stomach and forced himself to continue.

            “Well,” He began, suddenly absurdly sweaty, “I’ve been seeing your son for a while now and – “

            “A year.” Gibbs stated, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’ve been seeing him for a year.”

            “Yes, a year.” Thomas agreed, struggling to resist the urge to fidget. “A good, long year.”

            “And?” Gibbs interrogated, sudden hostile. “What about it?”

            Both assuming and hoping that such unchecked anger was a result of the older man’s mistaken assumption he was about to dump his child, Thomas swallowed down a lump in his throat and pressed onward, knowing he needed to get his point across _now_ whilst Tony was suitably distracted by discussing with Ducky the virtues of early language-acquisition.

            “Well I was just…I…The thing is – “

            “Out with it!” Gibbs barked, a dangerous gleam beginning to show in his eyes. “We don’t have all damn day. These kids are going to crash on a sugar-high soon.”

            “I want to marry your son.”

            Startled silent for what was surely the first time in his life, Gibbs stared stupidly at him for the space of several seconds before he was finally able to recover well enough to speak.

            “You do understand that if you hurt him in _any_ way, I’ll make your time in the Middle East seem like a trip to Disney?”

            “Yes.” Thomas answered, somber and sincere as he fingered the ring in his pocket.

            “And you do understand that this comes with a baby attached?”

             Having grown to adore Margo over the months, and gradually come to love her as his own, Thomas nodded sagely and maintained eye contact with his prospective father-in-law.

            “Of course. I love Margo, just as much as I love your son. And I’ll make the both of them just as happy as I can.”

             Clearly unwilling to hastily give his permission for something so serious, especially in matters that involved his child and granddaughter, Gibbs frowned and shook his head.

            “Are you _really_ all that sure you want to jump into marriage so quickly?”

             “I’ve watched men get blown apart by bombs just days before they were set to go home, Gibbs. And I’ve watched people die of disease back here, in the comfort of their own homes. I don’t _want_ to wait. I _can’t_. I love your son and granddaughter. I want to make their place in my life official.”

             “Well, then.” Gibbs growled, throat suspiciously tight. “Who am I to stop you?”

             “I have your blessing?” Thomas pressed, feeling a great need for such a validation.

            Suddenly very grave, Gibbs nodded curtly and grabbed his arm, the pressure applied quite forceful as well as a bit desperate.

            “Yes, but you had better take good care of them.”

            “I will.” Thomas avowed, gently removing the fingers from his arm before rising. “I will.”

             “Where’re you going?” Gibbs demanded, eyed narrowed in suspicion as he threw back several large gulps of beer.

             “To propose.” Thomas said, simply.

            Choking a bit on his beer, Gibbs splutter and coughed until, at last, the liquid was dispelled from his throat.

            _“Now?!”_

            “Why wait?” Thomas grinned, slinking away before he could be headslapped for the cheek.

 

             


End file.
